


Searching for Elusive Things

by SilverDragon00



Series: Oliver Scott 'Verse [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Case Fic, Depression, Drama, Drug Use, F/M, Family Drama, Insomnia, M/M, Panic Attacks, Parent!lock, Post-Reichenbach, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-01-01 02:11:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 47,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12146403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverDragon00/pseuds/SilverDragon00
Summary: Hello! Welcome back if you come from the other parts of the series!If this if your first time meeting me, you should probably go back and read the rest of the series first or else this is going to make literally no sense ha ha :)PLEASE notice that the warning has gone up for this story, and PLEASE read the tags because this is going to be the darkest out of all three of the fics so far.Enjoy the first chapter of the last installment for this series: Searching for Elusive Things!





	1. Microscopium  “The Microscope”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome back if you come from the other parts of the series!
> 
> If this if your first time meeting me, you should probably go back and read the rest of the series first or else this is going to make literally no sense ha ha :)
> 
> PLEASE notice that the warning has gone up for this story, and PLEASE read the tags because this is going to be the darkest out of all three of the fics so far.
> 
> Enjoy the first chapter of the last installment for this series: Searching for Elusive Things!

It didn’t take long for the silence around them to become uncomfortable. Just as John started to get antsy, Sherlock’s mobile rang and he stood and walked into the kitchen to answer it. John could just barely hear his low voice, something about Russia, something about “ _ boring _ ” and then Sherlock sighed and didn’t say anything for a moment. John looked at Oliver seated next to him and noticed his pencil was paused on the paper and he eyes were looking to the side, where he could probably see Sherlock.

He shut his book and stood up, then rolled his neck.

“Mycroft needs me again.”

John turned to look at Sherlock, still standing in the kitchen.

“I probably won’t be back until morning.”

John nodded, there wasn’t anything to say, really. Sherlock nodded back, then left the flat without another word. He didn’t need to grab anything. Nothing there was his and John wondered if he’d buy all new clothes or pick up the few that had been left at Violet and Sigar’s home.

Oliver got up and went into his room, shutting the door softly, then John felt very alone, in the quiet. Something occurred to him. Molly knew. The whole time, she had known. They’d talked over and over these past two years, she used to come over almost every week to drop Emily off for tutoring. That whole time - she knew. John needed to hear her side of it.

He went up to his room, because he didn’t want Oliver listening in on the conversation. He didn’t think he even wanted Oliver to  _ know _ Molly had known the whole time. John called her, and she picked up on the second ring. He had a feeling she expected this call.

Before John could even think about what he wanted to say to her, he blurted, “Why didn’t you tell me about Sherlock?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Then, “John-”

“I’m not angry with you,” he interrupted, feeling like he needed to explain. “I just want to hear your side of it. I need to know if everything Sherlock told me is true.”

Molly took a breath, and John could hear it shake even over the phone. He felt bad, but then she said, “What did Sherlock tell you?”

“He just said you had to help him in the morgue. Because he trusted you, and Moriarty overlooked you.” John felt bad even saying that. Did Molly feel like Sherlock just  _ used _ her in part of his plan? Did she know she was important to both of them?

Molly sighed. “Sherlock - he wanted me to be the on-duty examiner, so I would declare him ‘dead’ then help switch his body with an actual corpse. The nurses rushed him in, and only one of them was an actual nurse, the others were playing a part - I don’t know where Sherlock found them. They handed him off to me, and before any of the actual nurses or doctors could catch on in the chaos, we put his clothes on a corpse with a similar face. People believed it, because there we certain people who saw him jump and then saw him on the ground.”

“Like me.”

She paused. “Yes. I’m sorry John.”

“It’s not you’re fault, you were trying to help him.”

“I told him it was a hateful idea, and I tried to get him to go talk to you after,” Molly said, her voice sounding choked. “But he said he couldn’t and it was too risky. I wanted to tell you, I really did. Those first few months I felt so guilty every single day. The few times I saw you, I came so close to telling you, it’s all I wanted to do.”

John didn’t know what to say to her. He felt bitter. He was played, but he knew it wasn’t Molly’s fault so instead of saying he felt stupid, he said, “I understand.”

She sighed over the line. “Really, John, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me.”

“I need to,” She said, and she sounded like she might cry.

John couldn’t say he forgave her because there was nothing to forgive. She was just as much of a pawn in this whole thing as anybody else was, and that made him angry. Molly had never done anything but help them for as long as John knew any of them. It really was unfair to her.

“Thank you for telling me,” John said. “If you need anything, you can always call me.”

“I know, John, and you too.”

He nodded to himself, and they said goodbye.

John went down stairs and continued to read because he didn’t know what else to do with himself. Around dinner time he knocked on Oliver’s door to see if he was hungry, but the boy didn’t answer and John himself wasn’t really hungry either so he let Oliver be.

Before he went to bed later on, he found himself checking his phone, because maybe Sherlock would text him, but it was silly to even think that.

* * *

He woke up late because it took him ages to fall asleep. He stretched his arms out then hauled himself out of bed and checked his phone. Oliver left him a message about twenty minutes ago saying he was leaving to go meet Emily and Caden, and Sherlock was downstairs. John didn’t mind that Oliver went with his friends, but it left John feeling a little lonely knowing the shy thirteen year old he once knew was growing up.

John rubbed at his face and sighed, then went downstairs. He could smell tea, and was a little shocked seeing Sherlock had made it and left a cup on the coffee table for him.

“Morning,” Sherlock said, looking up from his phone and putting his own mug down.

John nodded his head, feeling uncomfortable.  He wished he still knew how to talk to Sherlock - it was so frustrating. He picked up his cup and took a drink from it and asked, “How were things with Mycroft?”

“Tedious,” Sherlock looked back at his phone. “I’ll probably have to go back occasionally. Just a bunch of boring men in boring suits asking obvious questions.”

John snickered a bit, and Sherlock perked up a bit, but then neither of them knew what to say and John walked out of the sitting room to go take a shower. In the shower, he remembered when Oliver and him cleaned out 221C, and the two boxes of Sherlock’s things he’d put in the back of his closet. He finished showering, stepped out with a towel around his waist and walked back up to his room.

He quickly dressed and dragged the boxes out of the closet. Then he hesitated, looking at the dusty violin case that had been sitting on his dresser for almost two years. He picked that up, dusted it off and put it on top of the boxes and picked them up. John brought them downstairs and set them in on the coffee table in front of Sherlock, then set the violin next to it.

Sherlock looked up, probably already knowing what was in the boxes, but didn’t say anything.

“This - this is stuff I couldn’t get rid of,” John said lamely, waving a hand at the boxes.

Sherlock hesitated, then stood and opened the top box. It contained his Belstaff, the one Molly had given him with a grim face a few days after the funeral. John thought about that with the context he’d been given by Sherlock and Molly, and it suddenly felt like a very different meaning behind her giving it to him. Sherlock’s scarf was folded with it, tucked around his microscope, and beneath it, some of Sherlock’s favorite shirts John didn’t want to give away, and his best shoes. 

The second box had a lot of Sherlock’s old books, ones John had seen him reference over and over, or ones the man tended to take better care of. Tucked carefully in with the books was all of the sheet music John could find that had belonged to Sherlock. He had found it all in the strangest places - under the couch, sticking out from behind the mirror above the mantel, crammed into the bookshelf, or in Sherlock’s old bedroom.

When Sherlock finished looking over everything, he ran his hand across the violin case, lifting the dust from it, then opened up the case. He brushed his fingers lightly down the polished wood, then snapped the case shut and picked it up to set on the desk near the wall. John had the feeling it would be a while before he heard the delicate sound of the violin again.

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said, then cleared his throat.

John didn’t know what Sherlock would do with the rest of the things, since he didn’t really have his own space in the flat anymore. A little bit of guilt tugged at John, and he picked up the Belstaff, and hung it up next to his and Oliver’s coats. He hoped Sherlock got the message behind that.

John cleared his throat then looked to Sherlock. “Want to go for a walk?”

Sherlock nodded.

* * *

Oliver made himself tea in the kitchen, yawning and wishing he had gone to bed earlier. John was still sleeping, which meant he hadn’t slept well. Usually John woke up first, but Oliver didn’t mind the stillness of the flat. Just as the water finished heating for his tea, the front door to the flat opened and shut and he heard someone walk up the stairs.

He knew it was Sherlock and he let a scowl fall onto his face. He promised John he’d make the effort, but he didn’t need to like it. Oliver ignored Sherlock when he walked into the flat, and finished making his tea before turning around. Sherlock had sat at the desk, elbow resting on the surface and cheek pressed onto his fist, looking drained. Sherlock’s wild hair stuck up all over the place and Oliver self-consciously tried to smooth his own down, wishing he didn’t share that resemblance to his biological father.

Sherlock looked sort of out of it, and Oliver wondered if he had been up all night - then remembered he didn’t care.

Neither of them said anything to each other and Oliver drank his tea from the safety of the kitchen, put his mug in the sink, then stepped into the sitting room and pulled on his shoes. He didn’t want to be in the flat alone with Sherlock while they both waited for John to wake up and the inevitable awkwardness he knew that would bring. He sent John a text saying he was going to Emily’s house, was going to meet Caden later. He ran his fingers through his hair to get out a couple knots, then left the flat without looking back.

He caught a cab to Emily’s house - well, it was actually Molly’s house where she lived with her boyfriend, but Emily had been living between there and her mom’s house for a couple months now. It wasn’t that far from Baker Street, either, if Oliver wanted he could walk there in twenty or so minutes, but it looked like it might rain again. The cab dropped him off and he paid the driver. Emily had the front door opened before Oliver had even reached the steps, and he followed her inside.

“Why are you up this early, anyways?” Oliver asked. He knew Emily liked to sleep in during the summers.

She shrugged as Oliver followed her. “Auntie woke me up because she’s leaving for work in half an hour.”

They walked into the kitchen and Molly stood leaning against the counter, talking to her boyfriend (the same one Oliver had met at New Years). She had a mug of coffee and her her hair was pulled back into the ponytail she always wore.

“Good morning, Oliver,” she greeted him.

Oliver smiled at her. “Morning.”

“How’s John?”

Oliver sorta shrugged, not really knowing how to answer. Emily saved him by pulling him towards the stairs to go to her room. He hadn’t been to her room before, only the kitchen and living room on the occasion that he would visit her. Emily’s room was pretty boring and empty, unlike Oliver’s.

“I just need to find my trainers and jacket,” she said, opening her closet and rummaging around in a few boxes.

Oliver waited, rocking on his feet and noting the few things in the room. She had a long poster of constellations on her wall, one she had brought over to Baker Street so Oliver could help her label them. Next to her mirror was the drawing Oliver had done for her months ago, and other than that there was only a few boxes around the room. “Are you moving in here full time?”

Emily moved from the closet and bounced on her bed, bringing her foot up to tie her shoes. She nodded. “Yeah, full time as soon as my parent’s divorce papers go through.”

She stood up and opened her bureau, pushing some clothes around to look for her jacket. “Mostly for school, because my aunt doesn’t want pull me out, but mostly ‘cause my mom’s a bitch.” She laughed and Oliver didn’t respond, but saw her pullover on the back of her door, so he took it and handed it to her.

“Oh, thanks,” she pulled it on and straightened her ponytail. “Where are we meeting Caden?”

They left her room and started walking down the stairs.

“Near the river, there’s some building he found that he wants to show us,” Oliver said, looking at the text message. “It’s like a ten minute walk from here, if we cut through some streets. Walk or cab?”

“Let’s walk,” Emily said, jumping off the stairs. She shouted bye to Molly, then pulled the front door shut behind them. Oliver thought it a little funny that they lived in similar situations, not with their biological parents. Oliver pulled up the map on his phone so they could take the shortcuts, and while they walked Emily kept purposely bumping into him, so he elbowed her in the ribs, then she pulled his hair.

“You’re being a child,” he said.

“We’re fifteen, we are children,” she said, jutting her chin. “Also, your hair is perfect for tugging. It’s not my fault your curls bounce so much.”

Oliver rolled his eyes and put his phone in his pocket because he could see the building Caden had sent them the address to. It looked like an old warehouse, half burnt down and five stories tall. He could see Caden leaning against the bricks, looking down at his phone.

“There’s Caden,” Oliver pointed. Emily sighed irritably.

“I don’t know what your problem with him is, if you don’t like him, then don’t hang out with us,” Oliver said. Emily always ended up extra irritated whenever Caden hung around, Oliver honestly didn’t know why, because Caden hadn’t been anything but nice to them.

Emily pinched his arm hard, and he winced, then she said. “Yeah, but I still want to hang out with  _ you _ , moron.”

Oliver couldn’t even fathom why. They’d known each other for over a year, fought constantly, and Oliver could never keep a conversation going. Caden was way cooler than him and made it look effortless with his leather jackets and ripped jeans. He didn’t know why Caden chose  _ them _ to hang out with, Caden was seventeen and hanging out with them must be like babysitting, but Oliver liked Caden’s company anyways.

“You guys took your time,” Caden said when they walked up to him. He stepped away from the wall and swung his arm over Oliver’s shoulder. He smelled good, like woodsmoke.

Emily snorted. “What’s so cool about this place? It looks grimy and dangerous.”

“That’s the point,” Caden shrugged, jostling Oliver. “Let’s go in and look around.”

Oliver nodded, ignoring Emily’s groan.

“Don’t be such baby,” Caden said to her with a grin. He took his arm off Oliver. “Oliver’s into it, right?”

Oliver felt his ears get hot, “Yeah, let’s go.” He wanted Caden to think he was braver than Emily.

Caden grabbed Oliver’s wrist and they ran into the building, sneaking around a couple security cameras. The rush that built up Oliver’s chest was one he didn’t feel very often and he loved it.

* * *

Oliver checked the time on his phone, surprised to see it was already one in the afternoon. Him and his friends were sitting on the roof of the warehouse, after messing around inside for a few hours and looking around on each floor. Now he sat next to Caden, who was laying back with his hands behind his head and his eyes closed. Emily was sitting on the ledge, swinging her feet and watching the sky.

“I probably have to go home soon,” Oliver said to them. “My dad doesn’t like it when I stay out all day.”

“That’s a dumb rule,” Caden said, his eyes still closed.

Embarrassed, Oliver said, “I don’t really mind it. He just worries.”

Emily looked over her shoulder and glared at Caden. “It’s not a dumb rule, Oliver. John trusts you.”

“You don’t need to defend me,” Oliver frowned.

“Fine, I won’t,” she looked back up at the clouds.

Oliver stood up and brushed the dirt from his pants and hands. Caden opened his eyes and sat up, cracking his back, “You’re going  _ now _ ?”

“Yeah, I have to,” Oliver said.

“Okay, I’ll walk with you,” Caden stood up and yawned.

“I will too,” Emily said, jumping up and walking over to them. She looped her arm through Oliver’s and pulled him towards the stairs that led back into the building. She let go of him when the got inside and walked ahead while Oliver lingered back to wait for Caden. They left the building, then walked together on the sidewalk until they reached the point where Emily turned left and Oliver had to keep going.

“Bye Oliver,” Emily said, bumping against Oliver’s arm. He waved and she crossed the street.

“I can keep walking with you for a bit,” Caden said.

“I think it’s going to finally rain,” Oliver said, looking towards the darkening clouds. “I’m probably going to get a cab from here, you should too.”

“All right,” Caden shrugged. “See ya.” He bumped his fist against Oliver’s, and Oliver waved bye, watching Caden walk a ways down the street to hail a cab. Oliver got in his own cab, just as it started to rain and arrived at Baker Street a few minutes later.

When he opened the door to 221, he already could hear the muffled argument above him and he sighed. He couldn’t tell what it was about, but he shut the door hard and stepped on all the noisy stairs so they would know he was home, and the argument stopped right before he reached the door to their flat. He pushed the door open and John and Sherlock were standing in the sitting room, Sherlock looking very defensive and John with a tense jaw.

“What’s going on?”

John sighed, his entire body suddenly looking like he wanted to collapse. “Mrs Hudson is leaving tonight to visit her sister for a while, and Sherlock’s going to sleep in her room while she’s gone. At least until we figure something else out.”

Oliver didn’t want Sherlock to stay, he was going to ruin everything! He snapped at John, “Why does he even have to stay here? We’re fine without him.”

John gave Oliver a hard look, and Oliver stepped back a bit, feeling guilty.

“John wants me here,” Sherlock said quietly.

Oliver crossed his arms and looked away from them. Of course John wanted Sherlock here. Oliver  _ knew _ that. He squeezed himself and sighed. He didn’t want Sherlock to think it’d be that easy, but as long as John was happy, Oliver could deal with it.

“Whatever,” he muttered. He didn’t have a choice here, anyways. He stomped to his room, but left the door open so he could John and Sherlock talking in lowered voices. Sherlock said something about changing the sheets in Mrs Hudson’s room, and the door to the flat opened and shut.

He listened for another moment, then heard John walk through the kitchen and hurried to flop down on his bed and put a pillow over his head. John’s knuckles rapped against the door and Oliver decided not to answer, so John pushed the door fully open and walked in anyways. Oliver’s bed dipped a little where John sat on the side of it.

“Are you really that upset about Sherlock staying here?” John asked, his voice tired and soft.

Oliver huffed into his blankets, and responded in a muffled voice. “I don’t know, I don’t really care but I don’t want him to think I’ve forgiven him.”

“He already knows you’re unhappy with him,” John said, his hand landing on Oliver’s shoulder, trying to turn him so they could look at each other. Oliver shoved the pillow off his head and sat up abruptly.

“I’m not just  _ unhappy _ with him,” Oliver said, with more venom than he meant. “I  _ hate _ him and I want him to know that.”

John frowned, “I know, Oliver. I know. Will you let him  _ try _ to change the way you feel about him?”

Oliver clenched and unclenched his fists. He didn’t know! He didn’t  _ want  _ to feel anything besides hatred for the man, he didn’t deserve anything but that. John’s the one who deserves to be happy. But Sherlock is the one that took that away from John in the first place. Oliver made a frustrated noise, not knowing how to convey what he was thinking.

“I just want  _ you _ to be happy!” Oliver raised his voice. “But Sherlock doesn’t deserve to be the one who gives you that.”

“It’s not on your shoulders to make sure I’m happy, you matter just as much-”

Oliver stood up, spinning to face John. “You don’t understand!”

“Tell me what you’re thinking then!” John’s voice started to raise and match his.

“Ugh!” Oliver put his fingers in his hair and tugged. “ _ Je ne sais pas! _ Until I was thirteen I was  _ never _ happy! Then you took me in, and you were just as miserable as me and Sherlock  _ made you that way _ -”

John stood, “Oliver-”

“ _ Non, écouter -  _ Listen to me! Sherlock wasn’t my reason for being unhappy. I’m genetically predisposed to be unhappy because of my shitty genes and social upbringing,” Oliver rattled off, his words going a mile a minute. “But I started living with you, and we were both angry at the world and just  _ sad _ and then you started getting better, and I started getting better and -”

“Take a breath,” John said, calmer. Oliver took a huge breath, but kept going before John could talk, ignoring the frown on John’s face.

“Sherlock being here is going to mess everything up!” Oliver shouted. “I need you to be happy because you being happy is what fixed me too! But now Sherlock’s here and he’s changing everything and now you’re sad and I don’t know how to help like you helped me.”

“That’s not your job, Oliver, you-”

Oliver cut him off again. “Sherlock being my biological dad was the only reason I came here, but now  _ you’re _ my dad and it doesn’t matter if I get along with him, right? I don’t have to be a son to him,  _ I don’t want to _ , but I know you want him here, and I  _ know  _ why-”

“Oliver, stop,” John stepped forward and took Oliver’s arms, unthreading his fingers from where they still pulled painfully at his scalp. Oliver realized he was close to hyperventilating and his eyes felt hot.

He took a deep breath and his chest seized when he realized tears hand begun to roll down his cheeks. Oliver pulled his arms away from John and covered his face with his hands, feeling confused and embarrassed as a sob escaped his lips. He didn’t know why he was crying, he felt so stupid - like a little kid.

John pulled Oliver to him and Oliver pressed his face into John’s chest, gripping his soft jumper. John’s arms wrapped around him and Oliver gave a huge sob, grateful for John just to be there, just holding him.

“I know a lot is changing,” John’s soft voice soothed Oliver while he tried to calm his own sobs. “And it’s emotional for everyone. I don’t know how to handle this anymore than you do, but I am  _ always _ here for you. You know that, right?”

Oliver nodded against him.

“You’ll tell me if you feel like this again, right? I don’t want you to have to bottle up what you’re thinking then break down like this.” John sighed. “I hate seeing you so overwhelmed.”

Oliver nodded again, taking a shuddering breath. Then he decided something. “Thank you, dad.”

John’s hold on him became just a little bit tighter.


	2. Pictor “The Painter’s Easel”

John woke up the next morning, relieved that he didn’t have work until tomorrow - Monday. At the same time, though, he almost wished he did because then he wouldn’t have to sit around the house all day and _think_. At least at work he could stay busy and forget about everything that was changing in his life.

He slunk out of bed and got dressed, then made his way downstairs into the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth. Just as he was about to turn on the water heater for tea, a hesitant knock sounded on the front door. John shut his eyes and took a breath, then let Sherlock into the flat.

“If I make breakfast, will you eat?” John asked. Saying pleasantries when they never had before would just make everything awkward again, full of hesitation and silence. He couldn’t stand it. Sherlock knew it to, and John hoped he would try to act normal if John did.

So Sherlock nodded and sat down at the kitchen table, pretending to do something on his phone. John thought it funny that Oliver did that sometimes too, when he felt awkward. Pretending to be busy.

Oliver’s bedroom door was still shut, so instead of seeing if Oliver wanted to eat with them (John knew he didn’t), he made extra eggs and bacon and put the plate in the oven to keep it warm for whenever Oliver came out of his room. John handed Sherlock his own plate, and they sat across from each other at the table to eat.

John hadn’t thought much about where Sherlock will sleep when Mrs Hudson returns from her sister’s house, because they didn’t know how long she’d be gone and Sherlock couldn’t sleep on the couch forever. Oliver sure as hell won’t give up his room, and John wouldn’t even think to make him. That room belonged to Oliver now. For a moment, John considered putting a second bed in his room, but there were so many reasons that wouldn’t work and before his brain could start listing them, Sherlock interrupted.

“I want to fix this.”

John looked up to him, confused.

Sherlock waved his hand between them. “This… awkwardness - between us. I want everything to go back to the way it was. Two years ago.”

John dragged his lower lip between his teeth and glanced towards Oliver’s room. “You know it can’t.”

Sherlock looked down at his mug of tea, rolling the cup in his hands. “We can try.”

“Things are going to be different no matter what,” John told him. “We can’t go back to the way things were. We can try moving forward.”

Sherlock looked up, but didn’t say anything, holding John’s eye contact. John watched as Sherlock’s eyes surveyed every inch of his face, not quite sure what Sherlock was looking for.

Oliver’s door opening broke the moment, and they both looked into the hall to see Oliver scowl at Sherlock, then walk into the bathroom and shut the door with more force than necessary.

John sighed and leaned back in his chair. “You know most of that is him putting up a front, right?”

Sherlock nodded and took a sip of his tea. “It’s okay, I deserve it from him.”

John didn’t say anything to that, but he stood and picked up their empty plates. He put them in the sink and turned on the tap, might as well wash them now since he didn’t have anything else to do. Sherlock stayed at the table.

When the bathroom door opened again, John didn’t look up, but told Oliver he left a plate in the oven for him. Oliver slid by and pulled the plate out, still warm, and walked into the living room. John finished with the dishes and put him in the dish rack, then picked up a towel off the counter to dry his hands. He looked up and saw Oliver set his plate down on the desk, pause and then spin to look at John.

Then, very pointedly while only looking at John, said, “Hey _dad_ , can Caden and Emily come over?”

John unabashedly gave Oliver a look that said _low blow_ , and glanced at Sherlock (who was busy fidgeting with his phone again). He almost pointed out that Oliver had spent most of the day with his friends yesterday, but John knew that being alone in the flat with Sherlock and Oliver all day would be worse. So, feeling a bit like he had just been manipulated into it, said, “All right.”

Then Oliver turned and sat down at the desk to eat.

John looked at Sherlock again, who was now absently picking at a scratch on the table with the hand that was held by a splint. A part of John wanted to ask how it happened. But once again, nobody spoke.

* * *

It’s been half an hour since Oliver sent a text to Caden and Emily, asking them to come over. Just waiting for them made him antsy, he didn’t want to sit and do nothing with John and Sherlock and their awkward brief words. The air in the flat radiated tension and discomfort, making him restless. Finally, he heard the knocking on the downstairs door.

He practically vaulted down the stairs, breathing easier when he left the flat, and opened the front door. Both his friends stood there, Emily looking agitated and Caden wearing a smug smile.

“What?” Oliver asked.

Caden pointed his thumb at Emily. “She tried to beat me here, but I was already in the area, so we ended up at your door at the same time.”

Emily rolled her eyes. “Yeah, and it’s not weird that you were just ‘in the area’ since you live nowhere near here.”

“I was headed to the park,” Caden laughed.

Oliver shook his head, then stepped out of the doorway to let them in. Emily, who had been to the flat almost every week for a year straight, brushed past Caden and started up the stairs. Caden shrugged to Oliver, then they followed her up. She waited for them outside the door to the flat, and Oliver pushed it open, walking into the living room.

Sherlock stood by the bookshelf, looking over the titles and John wasn’t there, probably up in his room. Oliver, ignoring Sherlock, walked towards the kitchen then realized Emily and Caden hadn’t followed him and instead were gawking at Sherlock. He rolled his eyes. Of course Sherlock’s return had only barely started to be reported on in the news, and he forgot that the better part of the United Kingdom knew the name Sherlock Holmes. So naturally, both his friends looked a little shocked to _actually_ see him. Which pissed Oliver off.

He grabbed Emily’s arm and pulled her away, hoping Caden would follow. Sherlock turned to look at them and Oliver literally heard Caden’s jaw snap shut when he turned to follow. He yanked Emily down the hall and into his room, Caden right behind them, then shut his door loud enough for Sherlock to know he didn’t want to be disturbed. Oliver sighed and shut his eyes, took a breath, then turned to look at Emily.

“Didn’t he stay at your aunt's house the other night?” Oliver asked. “You seemed shocked to see him.”

“I was at my mom’s that night,” Emily frowned. “It’s still weird to see someone _alive_ after every news outlet ever blew up when he commit suicide two years ago. It’s like looking at a ghost.”

Oliver groaned.

“How do you feel about it?” Caden asked. Oliver looked at him, sitting on the bed with his lip caught between his teeth and a weird jolt of electricity shot through Oliver’s stomach. He looked away.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Emily jumped in, “Okay, let’s talk about this.” She pointed to Oliver’s easel, at the unfinished project propped up on it. It was supposed to be a painting of his grandparent’s garden, vibrant flowers accompanied by butterflies that often flew around during sunset. He started it before John sent him back after Sherlock’s return, and since then he couldn’t find the motivation to continue. The colors would look uneven and he wasn’t in the right mindset for the painting to flow together.

“It looks amazing so far,” Caden offered.

Oliver shrugged. “It’s unfinished.”

“You should finish it,” Emily encouraged. “The colors are incredible!”

“Even unfinished it looks like a masterpiece,” Caden said.

Then Emily, “It’s so realistic.”

Oliver knew they were trying to one up each other with the compliments and he laughed at how childish and unnecessary it seemed.

“Finally!” Caden grinned, grabbing Oliver’s wrist and pulling him so he fell back onto his bed with an _oof_. “A real laugh! It’s been a few days since I’ve heard one.”

Oliver felt his face go hot, Caden leaning above him with a cheeky smile and tousled brown hair. Oliver shot up off the bed and pressed his cold fingers to his cheeks, while Emily started bickering with Caden about something. What the hell was wrong with him?

* * *

John walked back into the living room after ending a call from his sister. She just wanted to check in and chat with him for a bit, which he always enjoyed. Sherlock looked up when he stepped into the sitting room, and opened his mouth to say something, but his phone rang and cut him off. John moved to sit on the couch with his laptop while Sherlock checked his phone.

“It’s Mycroft,” Sherlock said.

John frowned. “Does he need information from you again?”

“No,” Sherlock caught John’s eye. “He has a case for me.”

Not knowing entirely what that meant for Sherlock, John shifted and cleared his throat. “Are you going to take it?

Sherlock was already moving towards the door, said, “Might as well. There’s some details about a planned terrorist attack he doesn’t have time to deal with.” His shoes and coat were on before he finished the sentence. “I’ll text on my way back.”

John nodded, flexing his fingers at his side. Sherlock left, and John very suddenly felt very alone. The flat was quiet, barring the electric hum of the refrigerator, and the muffled talking from Oliver’s room.

A tiny piece of John begged him to run after Sherlock, to go with him on the case, to forget the the past two years had happened and pretend for a few hours that everything was alright. Then he heard Oliver’s distinct laugh, and John remembered why he would never do that. Instead, he wrote for a while on his laptop, finished reading his book and cleaned up a bit to keep busy.

Not much later, when it was nearing noon, Emily walked through the sitting room towards the door. John thought it odd that Oliver wasn’t with her.

“All right?” He asked. It’s strange that he’d come to know Molly’s niece just as well as Molly herself. She’d spent enough time at the flat with Oliver over the past year or so.

She looked a little frustrated about something and John wondered if she still had that obvious little crush on Oliver. “My aunt just wants me home for lunch.”

John nodded, feeling like there was more to it. “Okay, tell her I said hello.”

Emily nodded then left, and John went back to cleaning up their messy bookshelves.

A few minutes later Oliver’s other friend who John didn’t know nearly as well, Caden, walked into the sitting room and gave John a charming smile, saying, “Thanks for having us over, sir.” Then following after Emily.

John stepped away from the bookshelves, intending on going to check on Oliver and make sure everything was okay. Before he even made it to the kitchen, Oliver charged out of his room, yelling something in French and brushing past John to the living room. John rolled his eyes at the dramatic antics he was used to. He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway while Oliver paced all over the sitting room, vaulting from French to English as his words tumbled from his mouth.

“Ugh! _Je ne comprends pas comment quelqu'un peut être - alors…_ ” Oliver tugged at his hair. “ _Je ne me suis jamais senti comme ça avant!_ ”

“Oliver, you need to -”

He continued pacing the flat, not even hearing John as he waved his hands around, just talking to himself. “ _C'est affreux! Je veux le haïr, mais_ -”

“Ollie -”

“But - _Il est parfait…_ ” He paused in his tirade, looking horrified.

John stepped forward and snapped his fingers to get Oliver’s attention. “Oliver,” he said patiently. “I can’t understand you. English, please.”

Oliver snapped his head to look at John and his face turned red in less than a second. He hesitated, then blurted out, “It’s - it’s just that everything is changing and I - I hate it because Emily’s still annoying but I don’t really mind her, she’s just stubborn but she’s my friend now and, and, I’ve never really made friends before. But now it’s happening kinda fast and Caden doesn’t mind how strange I can be and he - he likes astronomy too, and he’s good at maths, and he likes my art and he has these stupid perfect white teeth and his hair is like - _really_ soft and -” he gulped for a breath and ducked his head, cover his face with his hands.

John really, really, had to resist laughing. He didn’t mean to. Oliver was obviously distressed but the amount of self control it actually took him not to laugh was insane. Oliver was still hiding his face, but the tops of his ears were bright red and John, quiet as he could, took a breath to compose himself.

“Oliver… are you gay?”

Oliver jerked his head up, and his face was just as read as his ears had turned. “No!”

John nodded, not knowing how to deal with this. “All right. Are you bisexual? Because… well, you _know_ that kind of thing doesn’t bother-”

“No! It’s not-!” Oliver cut off and sat heavily on the couch, picking up a pillow and shoving his face into it. John moved to sit down next to him, feeling bad about almost laughing. He put his hand on Oliver’s back, which seemed to help, and Oliver sighed, then pulled his face away from the pillow.

“I just… I like _people_ , I guess. Does it matter what’s in their pants?” Oliver mumbled.

John didn’t say anything, feeling like Oliver wasn’t done yet.

Oliver looked at him with big eyes, “I don’t like _boys_ or _girls_ , I just like people who are kind and interesting. Does their sex have to be a part of that?”

John smiled at him, wondering how he was only fifteen years old and already thinking like that. “Of course not. You don’t have to put yourself in a box.”

Oliver let out a huff, the blush returning as he pulled up the collar of his t-shirt to hide his face. This time John did laugh, and Oliver giggled too, looking _so_ embarrassed.

John bumped his shoulder against Oliver’s. “If you like him, you should tell him.”

Oliver gave a noncommittal shrug. John then remembered Emily leaving the flat looking upset, and wondered if she knew about Oliver’s feelings and was jealous.

Later in the night, after dinner, Sherock hadn’t texted or given any indication that he’d be back anytime that night. John tried not to care. Oliver had stretched out on the couch, his notebook on his stomach and a pencil tapping on it while he stared at nothing. John sat in his armchair, reading. He liked the peacefulness, and for just a moment allowed himself to forget their life is changing almost completely now.

At one in the morning, John had yet to fall asleep. He stared up and counted the headlights that flashed across his ceiling and the heartbeats between them until he heard the front door open and shut. He knew it was Sherlock finally coming home, and his heart ached in his chest.

* * *

John woke early, finally, because today he had to go into work. He currently had four hours of sleep (maybe) and somewhat dreaded having the morning shift. He stumbled downstairs to take a shower and fumble with the coffee maker for a few minutes. He’d need it today. The bag of sugar they had been scooping out of was empty, and he sighed. Oliver had a habit of not throwing things out when they were gone. It led to empty juice cartons in the refrigerator and John never knowing what they actually needed to buy at the grocery.

He opened a few cabinets, knowing he had an extra bag of sugar somewhere, and reached into the back of the cabinet by the doorway. He pulled the bag down, glad Oliver hadn’t dug into it yet - he used way too much sugar in his tea - and was about to shut the cabinet when something shiny caught his eye. John did a doubletake, then raised onto his toes and reached into the back of the cabinet. His fingers brushed against something metal, and he pulled down a small black object.

“What the hell?” He turned it over in his hand. It wasn’t bigger than a coin, and looked vaguely familiar.

Then he realized it was a microphone tap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost forgot to post this today... here's another shitty chapter I guess?? Sorry if there's any typos, I didn't have the chance to proof read it.
> 
> Also, my update days are switching to Wednesdays, so the next chapter will be out on October 4th (next Wednesday).
> 
>  
> 
> \----------------------------  
> Here's what Oliver says in French:
> 
> "Je ne comprends pas comment quelqu'un peut être - alors…" means "I do not understand how anyone can be - so ..."
> 
> "Je ne me suis jamais senti comme ça avant!" means "I've never felt like this before!"
> 
> "C'est affreux! Je veux le haïr, mais -" means "It's horrible! I want to hate him but -"
> 
> "Il est parfait…" means "he's perfect..."
> 
>  
> 
> \-------  
> Reposting from last chapter:
> 
> The wonderful Bellefant did some [AMAZING fan art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12101247) for this series!! Please show them some love and go kudos their work!! If anyone does art or anything for this series, I would love to see it! Just leave a comment to tell me or message me [on tumblr](http://for-the-shipping.tumblr.com/).


	3. Reticulum “The Net”

John stared at the microphone tap with a sickening feeling in his stomach. Where the hell did it come from? John looked back up at the cabinet, where they kept extra cans of food and such. They didn’t open it often, the last time he stocked it had been two weeks ago, and the microphone wasn’t there then. Mycroft used to tap the flat to watch over Sherlock, and their flat had been tapped by criminals before. Had Mycroft done it, maybe now that Sherlock was back? He had been over in the timeframe the tap had to have been placed. John would ask next time he saw him. For now, John dropped it to the floor and crushed it under his shoe. He didn’t like being spied on, even if it was just Mycroft.

He rushed to finish getting ready for work, a little paranoid, but the feeling faded when he got to the surgery and became wrapped up with patients. He mostly forgot about the tap during the day, he was so busy. Autumn was approaching, and they always were incredibly busy this time of year with schools starting up and allergies causing problems. The morning breezed by, and the masses of patients finally trickled off in the afternoon. He had to deal with a pretty nasty case of chickenpox on a sniffly seven year old boy who looked a lot like Oliver would have as a child, but after that there weren’t many people.

Around two in the afternoon, his shift ended and he left, heading back to the flat. He looked up at the grey sky, the dreary weather did not surprise to him, but the warm breeze felt pleasant.

He stepped into the flat, and saw Sherlock slouched on the sofa with John’s laptop. He rolled his eyes, but didn’t really care, and noticed Sherlock’s wrist splint was gone. Discoloring stood out around his wrist still and John still didn’t ask how it happened. John toed his shoes off and walked to Oliver’s room to see if he’d eaten lunch yet, but Oliver had earbuds in and was working on a painting of a garden he recognized as the Holmes’. So he let him be.

Sherlock looked up from the laptop when John stepped back into the sitting room, and John said, “You didn’t get back until late, was the case a success?”

Sherlock put the laptop on the coffee table, “Not yet, I’m still looking for a few specific people. There’s definitely an attack being planned, but I’ve narrowed it down to a dozen or so people who could be in on it. I just need to watch them for odd behavior.”

John watched as Sherlock got lost in his mind for a second, leaning his elbows on his knees and his chin balanced atop his fingers, then snapped out of it and looked up at John. “Would you like to come along when I get a hit?”

John felt himself jolt a little while his heart screamed  _ finally! _ But what came out was, “Not this time.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, looking a little confused as he leaned back.

John’s phone beeped and he checked it, a little relieved to see it was Greg inviting him out to a late lunch. He looked up at Sherlock, who was staring down at his knees, lost in thought, and accepted the invite, glad to get out of the flat. Instead of bugging Oliver, he sent him a text saying he would be out for a bit, then left and met Greg at the café they use to frequent.

“God, you look tired,” The first thing Greg said to John as they sat down across from each other.

John laughed, “Yeah, thanks.”

“But you look a little better than when I saw you the other night,” Greg said, serious this time.

“I guess,” John shifted in his seat. “Things are… weird… right now. Has Sherlock been to see you yet?”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, he showed up at the Yard yesterday with his brother and scared the hell out of half the staff. It was so  _ strange _ seeing him walk in there, with his coat and - tallness, I don’t know.”

“It is,” John agreed.

“He looks different,” Greg said, taking a sip from the drink he had ordered. He was right. Sherlock was thinner, a little sick-looking and tired. John had the urge to help him, he wanted to fix it, but he didn’t know how. “But I’m not surprised he’s already going at it on a case. I half expected to see you walk in right behind him.”

John used his straw to stir around the ice in his water. “He offered, but I said no. I don’t even know why, but I wanted to go with him.”

“It’s too soon,” Greg offered. “I doubt Sherlock knows what to do with himself, and that’s why he’s taking the case.”

“Probably.”

“How’s Oliver?”

John sighed. “Not great. He  _ hates _ Sherlock. Oliver wants him to leave, and I honestly don’t blame him. But he’s trying, I guess. We’re all trying to make it work, but it’s really… awkward.”

“I can imagine.”

“Well,” John shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about it. How’s work? Are you still with that girl you told us about at New Years?”

“Nah, she broke up with me a while ago,” Greg said. “I’ve been so wrapped up at work.”

John and him talked for a long time, about work and politics and sports and all the things they used to talk about. John enjoyed it and felt like he really needed it. Him and Greg had become pretty close friends over past few years. When they finally said goodbye and went separate ways, it was almost six in the evening, and the weather was really nice on his way back, keeping his good mood lifted.

As soon as he opened the front door, though, he could hear Oliver and Sherlock shouting at each other and he groaned, letting the back of his head hit the doorframe. He closed his eyes, hearing the muffled argument, then some stomping, then more shouting. John sighed and continued up the stairs.

Sherlock was standing in the middle of the sitting room, and Oliver was standing on the couch so he was eye level with Sherlock, even from far away. He had his fists closed and nose scrunched up, and from their scattered argument, it sounded like Sherlock had tried to pin up case notes and Oliver wouldn’t let him. Honestly, it’s the most John’s heard them talk since the first argument, but it needed to stop.

“Hey!” John shouted over both of them, slamming the door shut behind him. They both turned to look at him. “What’s going on?”

Oliver pointed at Sherlock, but they both started talking at the same time.

“Oi!” John snapped. “One at a time.”

Oliver huffed, then snapped, “He was pinning a bunch of paper all over the wall for his stupid case -”

“I told you I was going to take it down after, I just needed it all laid out,” Sherlock argued.

“All right!” John cut them off. “Oliver, get off the couch - we don’t stand on the furniture. It’s fine if Sherlock pins stuff to the walls, there’s enough space, and he said he’ll take care of it.”

“But - !”

“Listen!” John snapped. “Can you please just let this one go?”

Oliver stared at him, looking shocked. Then he scoffed and jumped off the couch, brushing by him and storming out the door.

“Oliver!” John shouted after him, but the front door slammed and John groaned, leaning his head against the doorframe. He turned around and looked at Sherlock, who immediately turned defensive.

“He started it,” Sherlock pointed towards the door. “I’m  _ trying _ but he can’t stand me!”

“You’re the adult, as much as you hate to act like it,” John shouted. “He’s only fifteen!”

* * *

Oliver slammed the front door shut and yanked his phone out of his pocket, dialing Caden. If he called Emily, she would tell him to go home, but he knew Caden would listen to him and he just needed someone to vent to. John was being unfair, Oliver couldn’t believe he sided with Sherlock.

Caden answered after a few rings with, “You all right, mate?”

“Not really,” Oliver huffed into the phone. “I need someone to talk to.”

“Stuff with your parents?”

“With my dad and  _ Sherlock _ ,” Oliver corrected with venom, turning at the end of the street and leaning against the brick. “They’re being awful and my dad sided with Sherlock on something and it made me feel like an idiot.”

“Are you at home?” Caden asked.

“No, I’m down the road by that tiny old bookstore.” Oliver leaned his head back so it hit the bricks of the building.

“Okay, stay there, I can get there in like ten minutes.”

“Okay,” Oliver said. He ended the phone call and pulled his earbuds out of his pocket. He wished he had his big headphones, the music always sounded better in those. But he stopped wearing them all the time a while ago. Oliver put the earbuds in his ears and leaned his head back again, looking the the darkening sky while acoustics drifted into his mind. His chest hurt and he knew that meant his anxiety was building, but the music helped a little.

He almost felt bad for storming out, but he knew John would watch where he was with the GPS on his phone. John would probably be mad anyways when Oliver went home, he might as well delay it now. Oliver huffed and drummed his fingers against his jeans. He could hear sirens in the distance, even over his music. He focused on trying to figure out where they were headed instead of his rising heart rate and shaky hands. Oliver wondered if they were talking about him at home. He hoped not.

One of his earbuds was suddenly yanked out and he jumped, then saw Caden standing next to him with a smile. Oliver pulled the other out and started winding them around his fingers.

“That was fast,” he said.

Caden shrugged. “I took a cab. Come on.”

“I don’t want to go too far, it’s getting late.”

“We won’t, let’s just walk,” Caden said, putting his arm over Oliver’s shoulders and leading him. Caden was a good six inches taller than Oliver, so he was able to lean on Oliver and guide him around with ease.

“So,” Caden said. “What actually happened?”

“It’s stupid,” Oliver sighed, putting his hands in his pockets with is phone and earbuds. “I was fighting with Sherlock, and when my dad came home he took Sherlock’s side. I don’t know. I shouldn’t really be upset but… Sherlock’s invading everything.”

Caden nodded, letting Oliver talk. His hand squeezed Oliver’s shoulder.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Oliver said. “I just want John to myself again.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Caden argued. “You’re shaking.”

“What?” Oliver stopped and looked at his hands. They were shaking again and it made his shoulders shake too. “It’s just anxiety. I used to have a big problem with it, and it’s coming back apparently.”

They kept walking for a little bit while Oliver tried to breathe in the way that used to calm him. Caden had led them away from the busier parts of the city, which Oliver appreciated. He didn’t want to be around a bunch of people. He recognized the street as the one the warehouse they hung out at resided. They walked just inside the building, and sat next to each other on the floor, leaning against the wall.

Oliver crossed his legs and flexed his fingers, glad the shaking had stopped but he still felt that annoying unease in his stomach. He sighed again. He really thought he had a better handle on this. 

Caden shifted, rooting around in his pockets. “Here.”

Oliver looked up, then jerked away at seeing a cigarette between Caden’s fingers.

“Are you kidding me?” Oliver shook his head. “Where did you get that? You don’t smoke.”

Caden shrugged. “I got it from my dad.” He stuck it between his lips and put a lighter up to it. Oliver looked around, as if someone might be in the warehouse to see. Caden blew out a puff of smoke and Oliver crinkled his nose, hating the smell. It smelled like raw chemicals or gasoline.

He waved his hand in front of his face to clear the smell. “What are you doing? You know that’s illegal, you’re seventeen.”

“You’re fifteen, and no one’s here,” Caden said, pulling the cigarette from his mouth and holding it out again. “I swear it reduces anxiety. Gives you something to focus on.”

Oliver stared at the burning red end, and the smoke spiraling from it. Caden hadn’t lied to him yet, and he didn’t want to look like a baby. But he pushed Caden’s hand away. “I - I can’t.”

“Aw, come on mate, it’s not a big deal. One won’t kill you,” Caden said, grinning at him. Curse that smile, making Oliver’s heart flip.

Still, he shook his head. “My dad will smell it on me. He’ll kill me.”

Caden rolled his eyes and put it back between his own lips, taking a long drag from it. “I’ll spray you down and give you gum. It’ll be fine, I promise.”

Caden held it out once more. This time Oliver took it from him, and it felt awkward between his fingers. Afraid it would snap if he held it too tightly, he brought it to his lips and inhaled, his lungs filling with thick smoke. He quickly gave it back to Caden, coughing the smoke out and wincing at the awful smell.

Caden put his arm around Oliver again. “You’ll get used to that.”

“I don’t want to get addicted to it.”

“You won’t if it’s only one.” He held it out again.

Oliver hesitated, then took another drag. That one wasn’t as bad, but the cigarette was mostly burnt out and Caden flicked it away from them, then jumped up.

“Let’s look around some more,” He said, holding his hand out and smiling down at Oliver.

“Um… all right,” Oliver swallowed, taking Caden’s calloused hand and allowing himself to be pulled up. Caden didn’t let go of his hand while they made their way up to the second floor of the building. He had to watch where he stepped, because some of the floor was ready to collapse and half of it already had.

Caden let go of his hand and picked up a massive rock, then chucked it across the open area. It  _ clanged _ off a piece of metal and echoed around. They walked around, laughing at the graffiti and kicking stuff around. As some point Caden had lit another cigarette and they passed it between them. Oliver found himself relaxing, and each drag was easier than the last. When it died out, he crushed it under his foot.

He had fun walking around and finding rooms they missed last time, and soon Sherlock and John were pushed to the back of his mind as he got lost in the grungy building and jokes between them.

Oliver pointed up at a phallic drawing, feigning an awed expression and said, “Wow this must be a bird!”

Caden burst out laughing and pretended to study it with a hand under his chin. “Incredible artistry!”

“We must hunt for this strange creature in the wild,” Oliver played along. “But what could such a beauty possibly be called?”

Caden laughed again, and put a hand in Oliver’s hair, messing it up. Oliver liked the feeling of Caden’s warm hand against his head, and he grinned up at him.

When they grew tired of making jokes about the graffiti and seeing who could throw things the farthest, they sat down near where a huge hole let them see the floor below them, their feet dangling. It gave Oliver a rush. The part they sat on could collapse at any moment. One wrong move and they were dead.

He heard a lighter click and he watched Caden flick his green lighter on and off, spinning it between his tan fingers. He lit it again and said, “Watch.” Then he pulled up the cuff of his jeans, and put out the flame by pressing it to the skin of his ankle.

“Caden!” Oliver gasped.

Caden grinned, pulling the lighter away and pushing his pant leg back down. “Doesn’t even hurt.”

Oliver grimaced. “That’s a shitty thing to do.”

Cande shrugged and lay back on the dirty floor with his hands behind his head. He looked so relaxed, like he didn’t care that he definitely just burned his skin or that the back of his leather jacket was going to get disgusting. His red tee shirt rode up a little, showing his tight stomach, and Oliver looked away, hoping his face didn’t look as red as it felt.

“You sound like Emily when she gets all bossy,” Caden said, his eyes closed.

Oliver frowned. “I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

Caden opened his eyes and raised up so he was leaning back on his elbows. He tilted his head. “Why? It didn’t really hurt anyways.”

Oliver shook his head and looked down. “Nevermind, I -”

Caden cut him off by moving forward and kissing him.

* * *

“I  _ know _ he’s fifteen!” Sherlock shouted back.

“Then stop expecting him to behave like an adult!” John argued. “You can’t argue with him like he’s fully grown!”

Sherlock’s fists opened and closed and he looked away, huffing through his nose. No longer yelling, but still on edge, he said, “I’m trying to make this work,  _ I’m trying _ to fit into this life you built without me, but Oliver doesn’t want me here!”

“Try harder!” John snapped. He wasn’t trying at all!

Sherlock shouted back, “How can I when everything’s changed?! This is no longer my home, you got rid of my things, and took my son!”

“ _ Oliver was never yours! _ ” John shouted. “And you’re the one who gave all of this up!

All the fight drained out of Sherlock before John’s eyes, and Sherlock put his hands up to his face, sighing heavily. “I don’t know how to fix this,” came as a desperate whisper.

“You start with that boy,” John pointed over his shoulder, were Oliver had run from the flat. Sherlock swallowed, looking towards Oliver’s room, then back at John.

“Tell me about him,” Sherlock said. “I don’t even know who he is, and I haven’t bothered to try and find out.”

John felt his own energy drain, the adrenaline from fighting leaving in an instant. He moved and sat down on the couch, rubbing his hand over his face and sighing. Sherlock walked around the coffee table and hesitated, then lowered himself onto the couch too. They didn’t talk for a bit, and for the first time it felt normal. It felt like the silence that happened two years ago when they were both content and busy on their own.

“Mycroft brought Oliver here a few months before his fourteenth birthday,” John started. “He didn’t want to be here, and I was still… not good.”

They both shifted a bit, uncomfortable, but John continued. He told Sherlock that Oliver used to just be  _ angry _ . That Oliver was angry at life, at his anxiety problems. Oliver used to have panic attacks, and during bad days it would happen multiple times a day. He helped Oliver figure out how to manage them, and over the past two years they weren’t as bad. Once in awhile Oliver will have one, but it was pretty rare. He’s opened up so much since he was thirteen.

John told Sherlock that Oliver was amazing at math, and loved astronomy. He’s been teaching it to himself for years. John pointed out some of the artwork that hung around the flat, all things that Oliver’s done, and he’s grown fantastically. He said that Oliver’s taken up guitar recently and has been learning it so fast. John used to worry about him a lot, but he’s gotten better and he smiles more. John doesn’t tell Sherlock this, but he thinks Oliver saved his life by joining it.

“There was this time, a while ago,” John said, not liking to remember this. He fidget with his hands. “Oliver was being bullied in school, and one night when he didn’t come home, I went out to look for him. Down by the road next to the Thames, Oliver was being harassed by a couple boys and before I could get there, they lifted him and pushed him over the railing into the water.”

“He can’t swim,” Sherlock stated. John wondered if he knew that because someone told him, or if it’s something he’d always known.

John nodded. “Yeah he couldn’t. It took me too long to get to him, and when I pulled him out, I - I thought he was dead. He almost did die.”

They sit in the quiet again, because John doesn’t know what to add to that and Sherlock is absorbing all of this. John doesn’t mind.

* * *

Oliver and Caden lay next to each other on the roof of the warehouse, watching the stars appear in the darkened sky. He knew it was just past eight at night, and he should probably go home, but he didn’t really want to yet. He checked his phone, and saw a text from John asking him to text back so John knew he was safe. Oliver responded saying he’s sorry, he’ll come home soon and he’s with Caden.

He put his phone back in his pocket and crossed his arms behind his head. His stomach had a sinking feeling, because he knew he’s done something wrong and he felt guilty. His anxiety told him John  _ knew _ , but Oliver knew that was ridiculous, and there’s no way John could know. He hoped. It was just one cigarette. Well, two but he was sharing them with Caden. And it’s not like he was doing anything wrong  _ now _ .

Caden stretched his arm out above him and pretended to crush stars between his fingers. Oliver watched, wondering what he was thinking about. Was he nervous about his parent’s finding out about the cigarette? Was he thinking about the kiss? Oliver felt his face heat up again, just thinking about it. Caden hadn’t said anything. He had just leaned over and kissed Oliver, then pulled away and told him to stop worrying. Oliver wasn’t going to bring it up, what if Caden didn’t want to talk about it? Oliver brushed his fingers over his own lips. That had been his first kiss.

“How do you think you’re going to die?” Caden asked, interrupting Oliver’s thoughts.

Oliver’s thought about that before, it wasn’t something he really liked to dwell on. “I don’t know, but I want to live for a very long time. It would be tragic to die too young. It’d be like a waste of life.”

Caden leaned up on his elbow and turned to Oliver. “Me too. I wouldn’t want to be immortal, but I want to live as long as my body will allow.”

That sounded poetic. Then Caden leaned over him again and kissed him, and Oliver froze in place. Caden pulled away and asked, “Are you okay?”

Oliver nodded and leaned up, catching his lips again. They were chapped, and kissing felt sorta weird but also so intimate. Caden’s hand was on the back of his head, fingers twirling a bit in his hair and sending tingles down his spine. He loved it.

Not longer after, he knew he needed to head home and started walking. Night had fallen, but the streets were lit and cars passed by every few seconds. He stepped into 221, and saw the light in Mrs Hudson’s flat was on, meaning Sherlock had turned in for the night. Oliver was glad he wouldn’t have to deal with both of them. He walked up the stairs, staying quiet as anxiety started to creep into his stomach again. What if John  _ knows _ ?

Oliver swallowed and stepped into the flat. There’s no way he could know. It’s not like he was watching Oliver, that was impossible. Despite trying to calm himself down, he could feel his heart thumping, as if he was about to be caught red handed. John wasn’t in the living room. Oliver lifted the collar of his shirt and sniffed it, to make sure he couldn’t smell stale cigarettes. He couldn’t.

John was sitting at the kitchen table with a book, but looked distracted.

“Sorry I stayed out so late,” Oliver said, hesitating in the doorway. Did he look suspicious?

John shut his book, looking tired. “It’s fine, I knew you were safe. I’m sorry this is all so…” he waved his hand. “Hard.”

John stood up, and Oliver felt the anxiety spike up through his stomach because  _ John probably knew and he was in so much trouble and _ \- John stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. Oliver immediately relaxed, if John felt him tense up he would catch on to something. Then he felt bad, because he knew John was trying and he didn’t want to betray his trust. It was just another reason John couldn’t know.

“You should go to bed,” John said, patting his shoulder. “It’s late.”

Oliver nodded, pulled away and muttered a goodnight, then shuffled down to his room. As soon as he shut the door behind him, he let out a huge breath and leaned back against the door. John didn’t know. A tiny smile found it’s way across Oliver’s face. He hadn’t noticed! He smirked at the odd satisfaction that settled in his chest at getting away with it. Something about the rebellion of it felt amazing.

He almost wanted to do it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so... here's the thing. I know you guy are getting a lot of "Oliver and his friends" in these past few chapters. It needs to happen though, because I'm setting up all the plot lines. Oliver has his own story in this fic, just like John and Sherlock have theirs (and everything intertwines). I hope you guys don't mind though, and thank you for bearing with me.
> 
> The next chapter is 100% John and Sherlock, though, so I think you guys will really like it!
> 
> Please leave your thoughts below! Reviews are what keep my motivation up and my updates consistent!


	4. Horologium “The Clock”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry I missed posting yesterday, I was having a bad day and seriously wasn't in the mood to edit and post this.
> 
> Probably won't happen again, but here you go!

John woke up feeling rested, for a change. Maybe because of the discussion Sherlock and him had last night, one that finally left them in a place of a little more understanding. Sherlock knew how important Oliver became to John, and John thinks Sherlock knew that he couldn’t have one without the other.

He got dressed and ready for work, and made coffee down in the kitchen. Sherlock had let himself into the flat, and had taken to pacing around in thought and moving random things around. John took his mug of coffee and looked out the window at the hustle beginning to take over the London roads. Sherlock moved into the kitchen and started making noise with random things. John didn’t mind. He turned away from the window, and noticed one his books had been moved. He sorted them alphabetically, but some of them had been switched, and they were ones that niether himself or Oliver had touched in awhile.

“Have you been moving the books around?” John asked Sherlock.

“No, just was looking,” he called from the kitchen.

John set his mug down and pulled the three books out, and something black caught his eyes. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he raised onto his toes and found it with his fingertips, pulling it down. He put the books back and rolled the black object between his fingers. It was a camera. Smaller than his thumb, but undoubtedly a camera. Just like the microphone from the other day. Usually when Mycroft had his men hide them in the flat, they’re much more careful.

“Sherlock?” John said, walking towards the kitchen. “What do you make of this?”

He held the camera out and Sherlock took it, looking it over. “It was in the bookshelf?”

John nodded. “It was rather obvious too. I found a mic in the kitchen cabinet the other day too. I don’t know how long they’ve been there, but no longer than a few weeks.”

“It’s unusual for Mycroft to be sloppy if he’s going to spy on us,” Sherlock said. “I’ll ask him about it.”

John let him keep inspecting it, and walked down the hall to check on Oliver. The door was cracked open, so he peeked in and saw Oliver sprawled out in his bed still asleep, the blankets half on the floor and his big headphones on his ears. John smiled at the teenage fashion, and shut the door entirely.

He said goodbye to Sherlock, who had taken the little camera apart on the table and was inspecting it, and left for work. He didn’t know what Oliver and Sherlock planned to do during the day but he really hoped they wouldn’t start arguing again. 

Only a few interesting patients came in during the day, and a few university students who needed their paperwork. John wondered what university Oliver would want to go to when the time came.

Today he worked a later shift, nine in the morning to six in the evening, but he didn’t really mind since it was something to do. When he got home at half past, the door to Mrs Hudson’s flat was open and John could see Sherlock pacing around in the little kitchen, fully dressed and looking down at his phone in his hand. He looked up at John, standing out in the hall, and green eyes caught blue.

“I have a lead,” Sherlock said. “Come with me?”

“Two minutes.”

John rushed up the stairs and changed into better shoes (just in case), then saw Oliver on the couch, reading.

“Going out again?” Oliver asked, head tilted and eyebrows drawn together.

John nodded. “I don’t know when I’ll be back, so order takeaway if you want.”

“Okay…” Oliver’s voice trailed away, John rushed back down the stairs. He stepped outside with Sherlock, and they kept a brisk pace up the street. John felt his heart lurch in his chest and he glanced over to see the wind blow Sherlock’s hair out of his face, eyes intense, and John remembered exactly why he fell in love with this life.

* * *

“All right, fill me in,” John said.

“All we know is that there’s an underground network planning an attack on London. I had been watching a dozen people who were under suspicion, waiting for something out of the ordinary,” Sherlock explained.

“Something changed?”

Sherlock stopped walking and pulled his phone out. “I narrowed it down to six people, and five of them had no changes - but the sixth you might recognize.” Sherlock passed John his phone. It showed a picture of a man John had seen on the television before.

“He’s the minister for…”

“Overseas development,” Sherlock finished. “Lord Morrell, and he’s been working with North Korea since 1996. He’s the rat.”

“What did he do?” John asked, handing the phone back.

“Hm?”

“Something must have changed in the pattern of his day, you said.”

“Indeed. Look at this,” Sherlock leaned next to John, holding his phone so they both could see a video. “That one there, that’s him.”

The footage was off a camera at an underground station. John watched as the man Sherlock pointed too, Morrell, boarded a train. The footage switched to a camera at another station, and the same train pulled in but he didn’t get off, and the train car was empty. Somewhere between the two stations, Morrell disappeared.

“There’s no stops between?”

“Obviously not, that’s why it’s strange,” Sherlock said. He closed the video and opened up some more pictures. “This is the part we’re interested in now. I received these pictures a few minutes ago from one of my sources.”

John almost wanted to ask if this ‘source’ was one of the people who know about Sherlock’s fake suicide but he kept his mouth shut. Sherlock swiped through a couple pictures of Morrell leaving Westminster Station, timestamped twenty minutes ago. So he’s alive, but there must be something down in the tube tunnels.

“What do you think he did down there?” John asked.

“He must have planted something down there,” Sherlock said. John took the phone from him while he paced around the sidewalk, talking out loud. “A bomb is likely, but he couldn’t have carried one down there big enough to make an important impact, so that doesn't entirely make sense. But it  _ has _ to be a bomb. We know an attack is being planned.”

He kept talking to the air, and John replayed the video again, then noticed something about the train. “Sherlock, look.”

Sherlock stopped his pacing and turned, leaning over John’s shoulder to watch the video. John felt Sherlock’s hair brush against his cheek when he hit play.

“There’s only six cars in the second clip,” John said. “But watch, when it leaves the first station, there’s seven.”

Sherlock took the phone from him and replayed it again. “Oh, brilliant, it wasn’t just him disappearing,” he turned to look at John. “It was the whole train compartment.”

He went quiet and John waited while Sherlock’s eyes flicked back and forth, thinking. “It has to still be down there. It disappeared between St. James’ Park and Westminster Station. If Morrell just left Westminster, the car has to still be down there - there aren’t any other stops it could be at. Another train isn’t due to go through there for two hours.”

“Why leave the whole train car there? What could be in it?” John asked.

“The car must  _ be _ the bomb.”

John felt his blood run cold. “That train runs under the palace of Westminster.”

Sherlock’s head whipped towards him. “Hurry.”

They took off running towards the station, swung around a corner and cut through  an alley.

“Call the police,” Sherlock said while running. “We’ll get there quicker, but if there is a bomb, they’ll have to deal with it.”

John yanked out his phone, dialled, and explained what was happening. Before they asked him too many questions, hung up. They slowed their run to a jog and descended the steps into the station. John kept up with Sherlock as they moved through the hall, and a bunch of people.

“Here,” Sherlock said, turning to a maintenance entrance. “Cover me.”

John sighed and stood in the view of passerby while Sherlock picked the lock. The gate creaked when Sherlock pushed it open and they both stepped in, yanking it shut behind them.

“How do we know when it’s set to go off?” John asked. Being in a closed tube tunnel with an active bomb wasn’t necessarily on his list of things to do today.

“Any time in the next hour and a half, before the next train comes through. I won’t be able to figure an exact time until we see it,” Sherlock said, looking around while they jogged through the dark tunnel. John turned on his phone to use as a torch when they came to a set of metal stairs that spiralled downward. It was dark and dirty, with the faint smell of gasoline.

They walked across a catwalk, climbed down a ladder and came out close to the tunnel and tracks. It looked like an unfinished station, between St. James’ and Westminster with the tube rails to their right.

Sherlock looked around, “It should be right here. I don’t understand.”

“Well that’s a first,” John mumbled. He walked towards the edge of the platform and shined his light down both sides of the tunnel, but couldn’t see very far. Where else could an entire train car be?

“Oh!”

John spun. “What?”

Sherlock jumped off the platform, right between the rails, looking down the tunnel.

“Sherlock, that’s live.”

“Well, don’t touch the rails,” He said, and started walking. “Come on.”

“Great.” John jumped down and followed him, being careful not to brush against the metal rails. At least they knew another train wasn’t coming through yet. Nope, they were just walking towards a bomb instead. They followed the rails for less than two minutes, rounded a corner - and there it was.

“You were right,” John said, shining his phone light at the car.

“John shine your light up,” Sherlock said.

John did, shining up at the large air vent above them. A dozen demolition charges lined the inside of the vent. He looked back the cart, that supposedly held a bomb. “Shit.”

They both approached the car, and John checked around and underneath it, while Sherlock climbed up to check the top. Not seeing anything that might trigger the explosion, Sherlock carefully opened the door.

“Jesus, careful,” John warned, following him in. Sherlock took John’s phone to use as a torch and stayed in front of him, careful not to touch much while he checked for traps and detonators. John did the same, working with the very little light they had. He searched for charges or an obvious sign of a larger bomb.

“How big would it have to be?” John asked. “I’m not seeing anything.”

“Look,” Sherlock pointed up at some wires that ran across the edge of the roof and down towards the seats. Sherlock gave John his phone and carefully lifted the cushion of the seat. Inside, John could see the whole compartment of the seat was lined with explosives. Sherlock set the cushion down and moved to the next one, and they saw the same thing. They both checked every seat, and each was lined with explosives. Every single one of them.

“It’s the whole car. The whole car is a bomb.” Sherlock said. He was right, they were sitting in the middle of a massive bomb, rigged to explode at any moment. John took a shuddering breath and turned to watch Sherlock kneel on the floor and open up a compartment in the center. He lifted the top off and the massive bomb sat right there in the middle, shiny and lethal.

John stepped back, letting out a huge breath. “We need bomb disposal.”

Sherlock stood up, still staring down at it. “It’s not active yet. There must a be a remote detonator. Morrell has it.”

“What do we do now? Just wait for the police?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, staring down at the bomb and curling his fists open and closed. John looked again. A red timer glared up at them, with the still time set for two and a half minutes.

John asked, “Do you know how to diffuse a bomb?

“Why would I know how to defuse a bomb?” Sherlock snapped.

“Because you bloody know everything!” John said. “We’re standing in a tube tunnel with a bomb between us, there has to be something we can do!”

Sherlock dragged his hands down his face, and suddenly the lights in the car snapped on, and timer beeped to life turning from 2:30 to 2:29 then 2:28.

“Shit!” John shouted. They both looked each other dead in the eye and John’s heart started to pound. How the hell were they getting out of this one?

“There’s not enough time to run,” Sherlock said.

“I know!”

Sherlock yanked his scarf off and dropped to his knees, hands braced on either side of the compartment, looking over it for anything he could do to stop it.

“How do you not know how to diffuse a bomb?” John asked, his voice rushed. “You have everything stored up in that head of yours!”

“That doesn’t mean I know how to diffuse a bomb, what about you!?”

“I’m a bloody doctor, I wasn’t in bomb disposal!”

“ _ And _ you were a soldier, why didn’t they teach you any of this?!” 

John groaned and looked down at the time which now read 1:42 and was still counting down. “What if we rip off the timer?”

“J- that would set off the bomb!” Sherlock looked at him incredulously. 

“See, you would know!”

“I know not to trigger a premature explosion, not how to stop it entirely,” Sherlock snapped back at him. He looked back down at the bomb and reached in, moving his hand around to check the wires and machinery around the bomb. John dropped to his knee across from Sherlock, looking in at the bomb too. Maybe there was something obvious that could stop it?

“There must be a way to stop it  _ in here _ . Terrorists can get into awful problems if there’s no way to stop it from the inside - like a failsafe,” Sherlock rattle off. He kept muttering to himself, and the clock was counting down, now only 1:09 seconds left.

John frantically searched the sides, the saw something jutting out towards the bottom. “There! What is that?”

Sherlock saw it and shot his hand down, flicking the switch. John immediately flinched away, but nothing happened. He looked at the timer and saw it blinking between 0:51 and 0:52. John let out a sigh of relief, leaning back on his knees and felting a massive knot in his chest loosen. He looked at Sherlock, who looked equally relieved.

“You berk,” John said.

Sherlock grinned at him. “We stopped it.”

John shook his head and stood up, feeling like his whole body had gone shaky. He could see torches down the tunnel behind Sherlock - the police and the proper people to take care of the bomb.

“Gave me a fucking heart attack,” John muttered.

Sherlock stood too, wrapping his scarf around his neck again. “Yes well, I tend to do that.”

John gave him a withering look, then laughed at the ridiculousness. Sherlock laughed too, and they both jumped out of the car as police flooded it to take care of the explosives. They stepped off to the side.

“Is this how it’s going to be?” John asked. “You make it a mission to try and kill me when we go out?”

Sherlock shrugged, fixing his coat. “Are you saying you’re going to come with me again?”

John didn’t answer, watching him fix his scarf and Sherlock looked at him with an eyebrow raised. “Maybe.”

Sherlock smiled, then turned to walk back to the platform and John walked next to him.

* * *

The police had about a million questions for them, and John had forgotten that they  both hated this part of solving cases for the actual government. When they helped clients, they usually didn’t have to sit around waiting to answer questions and fill out paperwork. John wondered if Sherlock was going to start taking clients again.

Oh, and of course Mycroft was there, and he got them out of a lot of the interrogating by getting on people about finding Lord Morrell. Regardless, they still ended up stuck there for over an hour and it was past nine in the evening when they were let go and started to walk back to Baker Street. John tried to check his phone, but it was dead from them using it as a torch for so long. He was insanely tired, but his adrenaline was still pumping from the rush of the bomb.

They entered 221, and John paused when he started up the stairs, then looked back at Sherlock, who stayed at the bottom, looking hesitant.

“I’m going to head into Mrs Hudson’s. I can hear Oliver’s friends upstairs, and I don’t…” Sherlock trailed off, but John understood. Things were still tense between Oliver and Sherlock, so for now this was best.

“Goodnight then,” John said, and Sherlock nodded, walking into Mrs Hudson’s flat and shutting the door behind him.

John continued up the stairs to 221B, eager to get to bed. He walked in and shut the door, taking note of Emily sitting at the desk chair, looking genuinely lonely, while Oliver and Caden were sitting on the sofa rather close to each other. John didn’t say anything about it, but told Oliver it was time for them to go home.

John moved into the kitchen and pretend to be busy while Oliver said goodbye to Emily, and pretend not to notice the hug he gave to Caden. The two left, and Oliver walked into the kitchen.

“Goodnight,” Oliver said, yawning into his fist. John said goodnight back, then turned off the lights and head upstairs to his room. He tugged off his jeans and collapsed into his bed. It barely took a moment to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think! Obviously, this is a reference to S3E1 and this is how I think it should have gone. I also changed the guys name because in the show it was Lord Moran and I thought that was too weird considering in ACD canon Sebastian Moran has a story.
> 
> So I think I lost a few readers, which is super discouraging, so if you're still here, please comment and let me know! I could really use the motivation.


	5. Telescopium “The Telescope”

For the rest of the week, everything felt slow. John worked long hours, Sherlock usually disappeared during the day or avoided going upstairs if Oliver was home. Everything was still hesitant between them all, but at least they weren’t fighting. Oliver went to his guitar lessons on Wednesday, and either sat in the the sitting room to draw (specifically because he knew Sherlock wouldn’t come upstairs if he did so, and John  _ knew _ that’s why he did it) or have his friends over. If he wasn’t home, Oliver sent him occasional messages to let him know where he and his friends were headed.

Everything sort of had come to a lull. It felt weird, like something was building. A fight? A break down? Probably both, knowing this household. Either way, John could feel the tension building again by the end of the week.

During afternoon on Saturday, John and Oliver were in the sitting room, John reading and Oliver drawing in his notebook. Last John knew, Sherlock was on the phone with Mycroft in Mrs Hudson’s flat.

The front door opened the closed, and John listened to hear if it had been Sherlock leaving. Then he heard Mrs Hudson call up the stairs and he looked up, realizing they had never figured out other sleeping arrangements. Oliver didn’t move as John got up and walked downstairs, and into Mrs Hudson’s open front door. Sherlock and her stood talking in the kitchen, while Mrs Hudson took off her coat and shoes.

“Have a good trip, Mrs H?” John asked, leaning in the doorway.

“Oh, John,” She turned to him. “Yes, I was just telling Sherlock that my sister caught some dreadful virus, but she’s looking better now. I’m glad to be home, it was too cold up north for my tastes. Not much to do, either.”

John chuckled, and Sherlock picked up her suitcase to bring it to her room. Mrs Hudson called after him to just set it by the closet, then she turned back to John. “I just glad to be back to Baker Street. How are you, dear?”

“I’m well,” John answered instinctively.  Sherlock walked back into the kitchen. “And you?”

She waved her hand. “Oh I’m fine, you know me. How’s Ollie?”

“He’s all right,” John said. “Spent a lot of time with his friends this week.”

“Good,” She smiled, then clapped her hands together. “Well, I hope you two sorted yourselves out, because Sherlock can’t hide in my rooms anymore.”

John caught Sherlock’s eye over her head, and Sherlock looked away.

Mrs Hudson kept talking. “Might as well take my sheets down to the laundry now, along with my clothing.”

John brushed past Sherlock and helped Mrs Hudson gather up the bedding into a hamper along with her clothes, and opened the front door for her on her way out. Sherlock had followed them into the hallway, and when he closed the door behind her, they stood and looked at each other.

“I can find elsewhere to stay-”

John cut him off. “You know I want you here.”

“How?” Sherlock’s voice rose. “I can’t  _ stay here _ , there isn’t space for me, and this past week has proven that Oliver wants nothing to do with me!”

“That’s because you’ve made no effort to talk to him! You just avoid him like a child!”

“I avoid him because everytime I go into the flat, he glares at me or tries to pick a fight!” Sherlock shouted. “I don’t know how to talk to him, because he doesn’t want to talk to me!”

“You haven’t even tried!”

“Neither has  _ he _ !”

“You’re the adult!” John spat, stepping forward. Sherlock literally flinched back and John froze. Just then, the door to 221B slammed above them and they both looked up as Oliver stomped down the stairs. 

He scowled at both of them, and snapped, “You’re both awful!” Then he left, slamming the door behind himself, making a picture frame fall off the wall next to them. John looked to Sherlock.

“See?” Sherlock gestured at the door.

“Oh, come  _ on _ !” John glared at him.

* * *

Oliver slammed the door shut behind him on purpose, his phone already to his ear. Caden answered on the second ring, and Oliver asked, “Can I come over?”

“Of course,” Caden said. “What’s up?”

“I just want to get out, they’re arguing again.”

“Okay, I’ll buzz you in when you get here,” Caden said. Oliver said bye, then hung up the phone and stepped of the kerb to hail a cab. He’s not in the mood to walk all the way to Caden’s flat and as he sat down in the backseat of a cab, he looked down at his shaking hands. It’s stupid that the arguing was triggering his anxiety. He’d never had problems with arguments before.

He took a shuddering breath, closed his hands into fists and shut his eyes. He wasn’t going to cry. He just hates the yelling and how stiff everything feels. Oliver knows he’s part of the problem, because he sits in the living room so Sherlock won’t come up. He doesn’t even know why does that. He just wants everything to go back to it just being him and John, because they were happy and okay. Sherlock’s the one ruining things. Oliver sighed.

But he wanted John to be happy too, and Sherlock would make John happy, right? Sherlock hadn’t so far. Did Sherlock even realize that John loved him? Does he not see how John looks at him?

The cab pulled up to the kerb of the street Caden lived on and Oliver took a breath, trying to calm himself. He really didn’t want to break down in front of Caden, who’s always so cool and relaxed. Oliver paid the driver and stepped out of the cab, walked up to the door and hit the buzzer with Caden’s flat number on it. The door buzzed and clicked open, and Oliver met Caden in the hall.

Caden frowned the moment he saw Oliver, “Are you okay?”

Oliver shook his head. His throat felt dry and his eyes were watering.

“Okay, hang on,” Caden put an arm around him and led them up to the third floor, where Caden and his parents lived. “My parents are out for the night,” Caden said, opening the door for Oliver and shutting it behind them.

Oliver had only been to Caden’s flat once before, and hadn’t met his parents that time either, but Oliver was glad they weren’t here. The whole flat was sorta boring, there wasn’t much decoration or clutter like at 221B, and Caden said it was because his mom worked long hours at the bank and his dad worked overseas so they didn’t have a lot to decorate with anyways.

Caden flopped onto the couch, spreading out, and Oliver sat down next to him, picking at his nails in his lap and feeling awkward. Caden shifted so his arm was behind Oliver, and his fingers twirled with the back of his hair. It sent tingles throughout Oliver’s entire body.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Oliver said, before Caden could ask.

“All right,” Caden shrugged. “You hungry? We can order pizza and watch shit television.”

Oliver smiled a little. “Yeah, okay.”

That’s how they ended up laughing at the television between bites of pizza, Oliver’s legs stretched across the couch and in Caden’s lap. Oliver liked the distraction, and everytime he looked at Caden his heart beat a little faster.

Oliver’s ears perked when he heard the click of a lighter, and he watched Caden light a cigarette and put it between his teeth.

“Are you allowed to smoke in here?” Oliver asked.

“My parent’s aren’t home and the landlord will never know. It’s a good way to stop thinking sometimes.” Caden handed the cigarette to Oliver. Oliver didn’t hesitate to take a drag this time, feeling himself relax a little with the weight of the smoke in his lungs and head.

Caden took it back and said, “This helps too.”

Then his lifted his own tee shirt sleeve and pressed the lit end of the cigarette onto his bicep, then quickly pulled it away. Oliver flinched just watching, but Caden didn’t seem too bothered. In morbid curiosity, Oliver leaned forward to look at the pinkening burn, then blew on it lightly.

“Why?” Oliver asked.

“Distraction,” Caden shrugged. “Here, trust me?”

Oliver nodded, and Caden put his hand on Oliver’s knee, then pushed his shorts up his thigh. Oliver felt his skin prickle and shoot towards his groin the the feeling of Caden’s warm hand on his thigh. Caden re-lit the cigarette, then tapped it to Oliver’s inner thigh.

Oliver yelped and recoiled, pressing his fingers to the burn and hissing. He didn’t expect it to be so white hot - Caden barely flinched!

“Wait, wait,” Caden said, grabbing Oliver’s wrists and pulling his hands away from the burn. Caden leaned forward and blew on his thigh, like Oliver had down to him. Oliver felt his face flush with heat, even through the searing pain on his leg.

Caden pressed his fingers to the burn. “Are you okay?”

Oliver nodded, realizing that - yeah, the pain did distract him.

* * *

John and Sherlock’s fight ran out of steam after almost an hour of stomping around and shouting about anything and everything. Now they sat up in 221B, at opposite ends of the couch, not talking. It was awful.

Eventually John stood up and checked his email, then pretended to look at the bookshelf. Sherlock started typing on his phone. They both pretended to be busy, without talking to each other, for at long as either of them could bear, and Sherlock finally said something to break the silence.

“I’m going to spend a couple of days at my parent’s house,” Sherlock said. “They’ve called me a few times and I owe it to them. I’ll leave in the morning if I can have the couch tonight.”

“Of course you can. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Sherlock said. Then a hesitation. “It’s my fault there’s this divide between us.”

John sighed through his nose, looking at Sherlock, just sitting on the sofa, and Sherlock stared right back.

The door to the flat opened and Oliver stepped in, looked at both of them, then walked past them, through the kitchen and into his room, shutting the door softly. John dragged a hand down his face. Oliver had been gone for more than two hours, and John didn’t even know where the boy had been the whole time. He was such an awful parent.

That night, in bed, John lay awake for a long time. His thoughts wouldn’t shut up and though he was tired, his brain wasn’t. At some point, late into the night, the very soft tone of Sherlock’s violin carried up the stairs and through the crack of John’s bedroom door. It sounded like a slow, melancholy tune John thought he may recognize, but wasn’t sure. Tears ran down his cheeks and dripped onto the sheet.

* * *

Sherlock is gone when John woke up. He didn’t leave a text or note or anything, which is fine, because John didn’t expect him to. Sherlock could have left five minutes before John woke up, or three hours ago - John didn’t know.

It was Sunday, and John didn’t have to work, so after he took a shower and made some coffee, he sat in his arm chair. Just thinking. Listening to the cars pass by outside, the hum of the refrigerator and and distant murmur of the city.

Oliver came out of his room after John’s coffee went cold. He stumbled into the living room, hair a mess, bleary eyed and tee shirt swallowing him hole. John could’ve laughed, thinking about how much Oliver’s grown since the closed off thirteen year old he once knew.

“Where’s Sherlock?” Oliver asked, yawning into his fist.

“He’s staying at your grandparent’s for a few days,” John put his elbow on the arm of the chair and leaned his head on his fist. Oliver fidget a little, looking around, his toes curling and uncurling against the carpet. John asked, “Are you okay?”

“W-why?” Oliver looked a little startled and John frowned. Something was wrong. Oliver was being distant, he had been the whole week, now that John thought about it. Why was he just noticing?

“We haven’t talked a lot the past two weeks,” John said. “I barely see you. You look a little… anxious? Right now.”

“Um,” Oliver twisted a finger in his shirt. “I dunno. I guess, uhm, I -I think my anxiety is sorta… getting bad again?”

John stood up and picked up Oliver’s rubik’s cube off the mantle. It hadn’t been touched in months. He handed it to Oliver, who looked down at it, clenching it in his hands.

“Why do you think it’s getting bad again?” John asked.

“I don’t know,” he sighed, irritated, and twisted the cube. “I’ve almost had a panic attack a few times the past couple days, I just feel kinda weird all the time and I can’t find the motivation to paint or draw. I keep starting stuff, then scrapping it. I don’t know what to do.”

John put his hand on Oliver’s shoulder and drew him into a hug. “I’m sorry things are so complicated right now. It’s probably the reason you’re getting anxiety.” John puts it in his mind to keep a closer eye on Oliver. He didn’t want the boy’s mental troubles to make a full comeback. “Let’s just stay home today, like we used to do occasionally.”

Oliver pulled back and smiled a little, and John noticed the dark circles under his eyes. He probably had been sleeping just as bad as John had been. His heart clenched. All this was probably affecting Oliver even worse than John.

They made a late breakfast together, then slid the TV out from behind John’s chair so they could see it better from the sofa. Oliver picked out some of their favorite movies and a couple bad ones that they could laugh at - just like they used to. There were a couple kids movies that Oliver secretly loved but would never say out loud, The Princess Bride, and an awful old soap opera of Mrs Hudson’s that somehow found it’s way up to their flat months ago. That one was funnier each time they watched it.

John missed this, and he’s sure Oliver did too. Why couldn’t everything still be like this? John looked at Oliver, sat on the other end of the couch. He threw a piece of popcorn up in the air and it bounced off his nose. John laughed, and so did Oliver. John had missed that sound.

* * *

John had work on Monday, at eight, which he didn’t mind. At least it wasn’t the opening shift. Oliver was already in the living room when John stepped out of the bathroom, hair still wet and dressed in a soft green jumper.

“Any plans today?” John asked Oliver. He was sat on the couch with a book he didn’t look that interested in.

“I’ll probably go say hi to Mrs Hudson and see if she needs help with anything,” Oliver put the book down on his chest and sighed. “I’m not really feeling up to going out today.”

“That’s fine,” John pulled on his shoes. “Call me if you need anything, all right?”

Oliver nodded and John left to head to another slow day of work, where he found himself distracted and worried about Oliver. He checked his phone often, looking at the GPS to see if Oliver really was staying at Baker Street all day. Each time he checked, Oliver was there. It eased his mind to know at least Oliver wasn’t lying to him.

When he came home in the evening, it was pretty peaceful. Oliver laid out on the sofa with his sketch book, but each time John looked up from his book, Oliver hadn’t drawn anything. He was just absently scribbling on the page.

John tried to think about what was going to happen when Sherlock came back. Came home. John didn’t know. John didn’t know what to do and he didn’t really want to be in control of the decision. They still didn’t know where Sherlock was going to sleep, and John’s pretty sure Sherlock was living out of two boxes and a suitcase. He couldn’t keep sleeping on the couch. Maybe they could clean up 221C? It was built to be studio-style, and had water problem. 

John sighed and looked at Oliver again. Oliver had stopped scribbling and was leaning his head back on the arm of the sofa, looking up at the ceiling. He looked towards the window, having an idea. It was already dark out. He snapped his book shut and Oliver jumped.

“All right,” John stood up. “Get your telescope, we’re going to the park.”

Oliver perked up. “Really? Is it clear out?”

He rushed to the window to look outside, then grinned and ran to his room to get his telescope. John smiled at finally seeing Oliver a little more alive. That was much better.

* * *

Sherlock came home on Wednesday night. Oliver had gone to his guitar lessons, and was going out with his friends after, so John was alone that evening. Oliver was looking a little less tired, and seemed happy to get out of the flat. John checked the tracker on his phone a few times, and it showed Oliver at Molly’s house, where Emily had been staying.

Sherlock had knocked on the door before coming in and John looked up from his laptop at the desk. He looked a little less pale and a little less tired too.

“How were your parents?” John asked.

“Suffocating,” Sherlock sat on the couch then said, quieter, “But I did miss them.”

John swallowed and looked at his laptop, then back to Sherlock. “I thought maybe we could clean up 221C for you? Mrs Hudson said she won’t have a problem with it.”

Sherlock nodded, staring down at the carpet.

“I don’t want to fight anymore,” John said.

“I don’t either,” Sherlock looked up. “I want everything to just work.”

John wet his lips. “I want you to be a part of this family.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, but the door to the flat swung open and they both looked over to watch Oliver walk in and shut it behind him. His eyes flicked from Sherlock to John, but then he started to walk towards his room. John frowned.

“Wait, Oliver,” John stopped him. “Are you all right?”

Oliver looked a little shaky, and John couldn’t fathom why. He just nodded and yawned into his hand, then walked down to his room. John watched Sherlock’s gaze linger on the boy for a moment, before looking back at John, somewhat thoughtful. But he didn’t say anything.

John cleared his throat awkwardly, and mumbled, “You can just - sleep in my bed tonight. The sofa is too uncomfortable to keep sleeping on.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows raised, but it wasn’t strange. They’d had to share a bed for a case before, and John’s was large enough for them. For some reason it felt different now. But it wasn’t. Right?

Later, Sherlock had changed into a cotton shirt and pants while John brushed his teeth in the bathroom, and eventually they were both laying in John’s bed with the light off and only the full moon lighting the room a bit through the window. Their backs were facing each other, and John could hear Sherlock’s soft breathing.

John felt awkward and stiff, entirely aware of every centimeter of his body, keeping himself still, not wanting to jostle Sherlock or take up too much room. Sherlock shifted a little on his side near the wall, their backs touched momentarily and John shut his eyes, willing the other man to just fall asleep. Why did this feel so awkward? Last time (albeit close to three years ago) they had pushed each other around and fought over the better pillow. Now the thought of Sherlock lying so close to him made his heart pound. Of course, he knew why. But he wouldn’t think about that.

It felt like ages that he lay there with his eyes shut, hearing his heartbeat in his ears and the ever so slight inhale and exhale of Sherlock’s breathing. A car passed by outside, the tyres loud against the wet pavement and the headlights flashing through John’s room.

Sherlock shifted again, John didn’t know if he was still awake or not, until his movements became purposeful and John tensed up. Slender, cold fingers found John’s forearm, then his hand. John’s body acted on it’s own as he moved his arm behind himself, tangling his fingers with Sherlock’s awkwardly behind him and between their backs. His arm ached a little, but he let out a breath and felt his muscles relax.

For the first time in a long time, being with Sherlock felt right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another kind of slow chapter... but the NEXT ONE. Oh my god. Things HAPPEN.
> 
> I don't know if anyone noticed yet, but the chapter titles are the names of constellations. Each one relates to the chapter on a very low scale. In this one, John had Oliver get his telescope and they went to the park (even though that isn't a scene), hence the name Telescopium “The Telescope” constellation. The last one had the clock (timer) on the bomb and it was the constellation Horologium “The Clock”.
> 
> Some of the references will be more subtle, but I thought it was a cool idea.


	6. Canes Venatici “The Hunting Dogs”

For the next two days, John and Sherlock shared a bed, then didn’t talk about it during the day. Oliver probably knew, but he wasn’t saying anything either. Actually, Oliver and him hadn’t talked much the past two days - Oliver had been out the whole time and John worked extra long shifts.

On Saturday, Oliver was out again when Mycroft came over for tea (which, in Mycroft language, meant coming over to check on Sherlock). Sherlock acted snappy at him the entire time and John thought his eyes might fall out with how often he was rolling them. Mycroft put up with it, asking John about Oliver. 

John frowned, “He’s been a bit antsy lately, and he says he thinks his anxiety is getting bad again. But I’m keeping an eye on him.”

“I’ll check on him soon,” Mycroft said. John had no doubt he would.

“Oh,” Sherlock said, lounged across the sofa. “On the subject of  _ checking in on us _ , please stop leaving you microphone and camera bugs in such obvious places, honestly, even John found some.”

Mycroft frowned, looking - for once - genuinely confused. “I haven’t left taps here for over a year, after John asked me not to.”

John’s blood ran cold and Sherlock’s head jerked to look at Mycroft, trying to see if he was lying.

“You’re sure none of your men have?” John asked.

Mycroft gave him a look that said ‘I think I’d know about it if they had’.

Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat, leaning back against the sofa. “I have a new case, then. John?”

John nodded. Who the hell had tapped the flat? Nobody but Mycroft had come over with the means, and Sherlock had only been on one case with no chance of making enemies. Someone from the past? The only reason he could think it was happening now, was because Sherlock had come back.

“I’ll keep a closer eye on who is coming and going from Baker Street,” Mycroft said. “But someone would have alerted me if there was a break in.”

Mycroft left a little while after that - Sherlock had retreated into his head and there wasn’t much else to say. Once Mycroft was gone the door shut behind him, John looked to Sherlock.

“Any ideas?” He asked.

“Seventeen so far.”

“Well, that’s a start.”

* * *

Oliver’s at the warehouse with Emily and Caden again, he was finding he really liked it there. Emily kicked an empty spray paint can and it bounced off the wall, making an echoing  _ clang _ . Oliver sat on a wooden crate, and Emily walked over to sit next to him. Things were awkward between them because he thinks she could smell the cigarette he had the other day before going over to her house, but she hadn’t said anything yet.

Caden was leaning against the wall, texting on his phone for while, but he put it away and walked over to them, holding his hand out to Oliver. In his hand were a couple of small white pills.

Oliver grimaced, “What is that?”

“Just take one,” Caden grinned at him. Oliver didn’t, and Caden rolled his eyes then took one himself. “It just dissolves on your tongue.”

Caden held them out again and Oliver lifted his hand - if Caden took one, how bad would it be? Before he could, Emily jabbed him in the ribs and glared at him.

“Don’t you dare.”

Caden scowled at her. “He can do what he wants.”

“I’m not going to let him take drugs!” Emily snapped.

Oliver stood up and stepped away, glaring back at her. “You don’t control what I can and can’t do, Emily.”

Oliver pinched a pill out of Caden’s hand and put it in his mouth, letting his saliva quickly dissolve it. It tasted kind of sour, and he had no idea what it was going to do, but Caden looked fine and Oliver trusted Caden.

Emily stood up and shoved Oliver backwards. “You moron! You have no idea what that is!”

“Caden wouldn’t give me something that could hurt me!” Oliver shouted at her.

“This isn’t like you! You’ve been changing ever since  _ he _ started hanging around!” She jabbed her finger at Caden. Caden made a face at her, and put his hand on Oliver’s lower back.

“You’re  _ jealous _ ,” Caden said.

“Ugh!” Emily threw her hands up and looked at Oliver. She grit out, “If you keep doing stupid things, I’m going to tell your parents.”

“ _ You wouldn’t!” _ Oliver snarled.

“I’m worried about you!”

“Well don’t be!”

“Fine!” She said, then spun on her heel and left them standing there.

Oliver felt kind of bad, watching her exit the warehouse. He knew she was worried, but he was fine! And it wasn’t her job to watch out for him. He sighed and turned to sit on the crate again. Caden sat down next to him.

“What was that pill?” Oliver asked.

Caden grinned in the way that made Oliver’s insides feel hot and said, “Don’t worry, you won’t get addicted. You’ll just feel really good for a while. It should kick in soon.”

They stood up and walked around a bit more, kicking rocks and throwing things around when Oliver started to feel kind of strange. His head felt a little foggy and he felt hot and his stomach twisted, making his shift from one foot to the other as something coiled in his gut. He reached a shaky hand out and grabbed Caden’s arm.

“Caden, I - I feel weird.”

A sloppy grin graced Caden’s face, his eyes looking a little glazed and his cheeks reddening. “Me too.”

Oliver leaned against Caden and reached up to run his hands through Caden’s soft hair, his fingers feeling tingly. Caden looked at him with those pretty brown eyes and pink lips and warm hands on Oliver’s waist, then Oliver decided he  _ needed  _ him. His lips found Caden’s and the warmth shot straight to his stomach, so he pushed his hips against Caden and Caden laughed into his mouth.

Oliver pulled away a bit, feeling dazed, and mumbled, “What?” 

Caden’s thumbs found the skin of Oliver hips and he shuddered. “You,” Caden said, kissing him again.

Oliver walked Caden backwards until he hit a wall and they both slid down to the floor and Oliver kneeled with his legs on either side of Caden’s lap. He grinded forwards and he’s hot, he’s  _ so hot _ , and his stomach is flipping when he feels Caden’s warm tongue in his mouth and it’s too much -  _ too much is happening _ \- but it’s not enough. Caden’s rough hands moved up Oliver’s thighs onto his stomach and it feels so good against his skin.

Caden pulled his lips away from Oliver, and found his neck. Oliver shuddered at the feeling of Caden’s chapped lips on his neck, he gripped the tee shirt tight beneath his fingers, dropping his forehead on Caden’s shoulder.

He doesn’t know how long it goes on for, but eventually Oliver ended up collapsed on Caden, them both laying on the floor. Oliver’s sweating and his skin feels weird. His ear is pressed to Caden’s chest, his heartbeat sounds fast and Oliver’s sure his matches.

“My dad will kill me if he finds out I took something,” Oliver said. He didn’t feel any anxiety, and he figured that might be because of whatever he’d taken.

Caden shifted and Oliver sat up so Caden can move and sit leaning against the wall. Oliver moves over so his head is in Caden’s lap. He thinks a headache is building at the front of his skull. Caden’s hair is all messed up and his lips looked reddish and it was really attractive.

“You can come to my house tonight instead,” Caden said, running his hand through Oliver’s hair. Oliver knew what he was really offering, and he shook his head.

“No… I’ll just wait for this to wear off more,” Oliver said.

Caden shrugged and Oliver sat up to lean back against the wall with him. Caden handed him a cigarette and Oliver accepted it.

* * *

The weekend passed without much happening. John and Sherlock still shared his bed, and still didn’t talk about it. Yes, maybe they slept a little closer than normal _ friends _ would have, and maybe John sought out Sherlock’s hand beneath the covers and maybe Sherlock squeezed it tightly. That didn’t matter.

What did matter, is that as the week started to crawl by, they didn’t make any progress on the case of the microphones and cameras in their flat.

John noticed that Oliver didn’t bring Emily over anymore and when he went out the GPS never showed him at her house. On Wednesday evening when Oliver came home from his guitar lessons and Sherlock was out, John decides to ask.

“Did you and Emily have a fight?” John asked. “I haven’t seen her around in a bit.”

Oliver shifted on his feet, his eyes sliding away. “Er - yeah. But I don’t really want to talk about it.”

John itched to ask if he’s dating Caden, but he didn’t push it because Oliver looked uncomfortable, and he trusted him.

Sherlock caught a case for the first client he’d taken since his return, and asked for John’s help, so he goes along. It didn’t turn out to be very exciting; what was an eight ended up being a two and a rogue cat, so the case was over before too late that evening. Sherlock looked put out when they got home, and Oliver wasn’t in the flat.

John pulled his phone out of his pocket and was about to text Oliver when a call from Mycroft came through. He answered it and put the phone on speaker so Sherlock could hear.

“I may have information for you, about the taps in your flat,” Mycroft said through the speaker. Sherlock turned around to listen.

“Go on,” Sherlock said.

“We found a small, almost non-existent, micro-organization in London we somehow missed after Moriarty’s death,” Mycroft explained. “It was non-active during the time we were searching two years ago.”

Sherlock ran a thumb across his lower lip. “Get to the point.”

“The organization only started showing signs of activity six months ago, and nobody had caught any sign of it before because they were barely moving and all of their operations have been incredibly low scale,” Mycroft said. “From what my men have learned so far, we believe they worked for a different branch of Moriarty’s network, carrying out smaller local jobs.”

“In the grand scheme of everything, they would have been undetectable,” Sherlock said. “Too much was going on before.”

Mycroft continued, “I suspect they’re after Sherlock now, wanting to finish what Moriarty started. They must have figured out he was alive before we did.”

John glanced at Sherlock, but he was intense in thought.

“I advise that you two check the rest of the flat and even the hall,” Mycroft said. “There may be more.”

“But how did they get here?” John asked.

“There’s no obvious signs on any of the street camera footage, but I’m having it sent to a specialist to see if any of the cameras were tampered with,” Mycroft said.

“All right,” John said. “Thank you Mycroft.”

They ended the call and John and Sherlock looked at each other.

“We should search now,” John said. He really hoped they didn’t find anymore cameras or microphones. They could be being watched by criminals after Sherlock, and who knows how long the taps could’ve been in the flat.

Sherlock nodded. 

They decided to start on the ground floor, in Mrs Hudson’s flat, just to make sure. John knocked on the door and she let them in. Sherlock spewed something about dust types and a case they were on. They didn’t want her to know they might be bugged. In all of her flat, they only found a microphone in her kitchen. It didn’t ease John one bit, but at least it had only been the one.

“Hallway?” John asked.

Sherlock lead the way out of Mrs Hudson’s flat and John thanked her.

They searched the halls and stairs top to bottom, and found two cameras, both at two different angles to catch the whole stairway leading up to 221B. The more they found, the more anxious John became to search every centimeter of the place. There’s only a microphone in John’s bedroom, behind his bureau, but it still makes his skin itch and he’s glad he and Sherlock don’t talk at night when they share his bed.

They moved into the sitting room, which would be the hardest to search and it took them almost an hour to look everywhere possible. There’s another camera hidden in the shadows of the animal skull between the windows, and a microphone in the cushion under Sherlock’s chair. Once done in the sitting room, they searched the kitchen and found a camera above the cabinets. Thankfully, there was nothing in the bathroom.

“Do you think there’d be any in Oliver’s room?” John asked.

“There was a mic in Mrs Hudson’s flat.”

John sees the point, and thinks it’s better to be safe and check, so John went first and they walked into Oliver’s room. It was cluttered with books, papers, drawings, and canvases. His blue sheets were unmade and his window was cracked open. His easel had a half done painting on it, but it looked like Oliver had gotten angry and furiously painted over it in black.

Sherlock seemed hesitant to go through Oliver’s things, so John started - really hoping, in the back of his mind, that he didn’t find anything weird (this is a teenage boy’s room after all). Sherlock found the first one, a camera near the doorway hidden on top of the doorframe. None of the rooms had more than one or two, so John didn’t think they’d find more, but they kept looking and he found a microphone half hidden by his bedframe. Then another camera hidden up in the windowsill, and another camera behind his desk.

John’s stomach sinks, and he looked to Sherlock, who also visibly looked panicked.

“Why would they be watching Oliver so closely?” John asked, his voice almost a whisper.

Sherlock wet his own lips and said, “Maybe… I mean, he’s biologically related to me and -”

John stopped him, realizing something awful. “This means someone was in Oliver’s room, either when we weren’t home, or when everyone was asleep.”

Sherlock swallowed thickly, and John felt anxiety coil in his stomach. This case suddenly became a whole lot more scary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, so who hates me?
> 
> (Huh, this kinda reminds me of how almost 16 years ago, Sherlock got high and accidentally got a chick pregnant. I'm not hinting at anything, but it's definitely a parallel, so you should watch out for those.)


	7. Pyxis “The Compass Box”

John had promised Harry he’d go to lunch with her on Thursday, so he took an hour off for lunch at work to meet her. She’d picked a quaint sandwich shop with a low flow of customers. When Johns stepped in, Harry was already seated by the window, and just seeing her lifted his mood a bit. John did miss his sister, and he was happy everytime he saw her because of how much she’s cleaned herself up over the years.

Really, Harry was glowing. Her smile upon seeing him was big and genuine; gone were the dark rings around her eyes that plagued her for years, and the glinting silver ring on her finger reminded John of why. Her fiancée, Genevieve, was so good for her.

“Hey, Johnny,” she said when he sat down.

He smiled, “How’ve you been, Har?” She grins, white teeth showing, practically bubbling over with excitement. He knows she wants to tell him all about the wedding planning and everything.

“Great!” She says, uncrossing and crossing her legs. “Gen and I have been crazy busy because she has a huge family and all of them have been visiting, and we’re trying to book a venue early but money is pretty tight right now. So we don’t actually have a date yet, but I don’t really mind and neither does Gen.”

Harry started rambling a bit, but John was content to just listen.

“We’re trying for before winter, but a winter wedding might actually be nice, who knows,” Harry said. She sighed and looked out the window, stirring her drink with the straw. While she seemed to be lost in thought, the sandwiches they ordered were ready so John went up and grabbed them.

When he sat back down and slid hers over to her, she snapped out of it. “How about you, John? How’s Ollie?”

John shifted in his seat. Harry was bound to know Sherlock was alive, it had hit the news a while ago after enough people spotted and recognized him. But John didn’t really want to talk about that. He didn’t want to bring it up and watch concern wash over his sister’s face, or answer any of the questions he himself barely had answers to.

So, he shrugged and avoided it a little, “We’re okay. Not much going on right now.”

Harry, being his sister, knew it was a lie but also knew it meant he didn’t want to talk about it. She took a sip of her drink and nodded. “Sometimes that’s good, yeah? When does Ollie start school?”

“In just a few weeks,” John said. The rest of the conversation took off. They talked about things they always talked about, and bickered like always would - about their favorite sports teams or whether or not the rainy weather was good.

Eventually, John had to head back to work. He left promising Harry he’d call more often, and telling her she needed to come visit more and bring her fiancée too. He left the shop feeling lighthearted and happy for her.

He finished work, and headed home. Oliver is out when he gets there (He really wishes Oliver would start telling him when he leaves. John makes a note to call him in a few minutes.) and Sherlock is pacing around the sitting room, muttering to himself.

“You all right?” John asked, pulling his shoes off.

Sherlock’s head snapped up to look at him. “Of course not, someone is _watching_ us, and they seem to be targeting Oliver. We barely have any leads, and the little information we do know isn’t very useful!”

“Getting worked up about it isn’t going to help,” John said.

“Well you don’t seem very stressed!”

“Of course I am!” John snapped at him. “First you coming back, the Oliver starting to get distant again, then all this!”

Sherlock threw his hands up. “Oh, _I’m sorry_ I came back then!”

“I _want_ you here! You know that, and I tell you that all the time! It’s just a huge change and everything is happening at once, and I want it all to _work_ !” John shouted. This wasn’t even about the cameras and microphones in the flat anymore. It was about _them_. There’s a massive crack between them that John’s worried will never be healed, and they both know it.

As they argued, throwing defenses back and forth at each other, neither of them said _it_. John why those two years were harder on him more than anyone else. It was more than just losing a best friend, and John was starting to realize maybe Sherlock thought the same thing. They loved each other. He realized both of them knew it, but neither of them would say it.

Sherlock shouted, “I can’t keep pretending everything is okay because I know it’s not and so do you!”

“I don’t know how to fix it!” John said back. Now, as John stood across the room from Sherlock and they stared at each other, he could really feel the full impact of the change. The entire distance between them that came from being apart for so long. Their eyes met for a moment of electricity, and it felt like the uncertainty of strangers meeting.

John sighed, tearing his eyes from Sherlock and looking down. Sherlock walked forward, and put his hand on John’s shoulder. John closed his eyes, wanting desperately to lean into him, and then Sherlock pressed his forehead against John’s and they stayed there like that. Just breathing each other in - once again, in silence.

* * *

 Oliver lounged on his bed, his door shut. Sherlock was out in the living room and John would be coming home from work soon. He didn’t really like being home with Sherlock all day because it felt so weird, and they didn’t talk, so he stayed in his room.

In his hands, he played with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter that Caden gave him a few days ago. The pack is full, because he hasn’t smoked at all unless he’s with Caden - because he _knows_ it’s bad, but something about the illicit call and seeing Caden do it made it enticing. And he liked the idea of doing something John and Sherlock didn’t know about, they’re too absorbed in each other to even suspect. He’d been lucky to avoid Sherlock most of the times he came home after smoking.

Especially the other night, when he came home still a little buzzed off of whatever Caden had given him. Sherlock nor John were in the sitting room or kitchen so Oliver beelined to his room and stayed in there the rest of the night.

He flicked his lighter on and off until Caden messaged him, asking if he wanted to hang out. He said yes, then sent a message to John saying he was going out, and walked into the sitting room to put on his shoes. Sherlock is sat at the desk, leaned over a thick book, and just as Oliver is about to open the door he speaks up.

“Does John know what you’re doing?”

Oliver’s entire body tensed up. What the hell did that mean? Oliver looked over his shoulder, his hand on the door handle. “What?”

Sherlock looked at him. “Does John know? What you do when when you leave with that boy?”

Oliver’s stomach twisted and he dug his nails into the doorframe, looking away from Sherlock. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He stepped outside and slammed the door behind himself, letting out a huge breath. Sherlock didn’t know. What was he even talking about? It was so vague, Sherlock could have meant anything else. He didn’t know, there’s no way - Oliver’s fine. He shook himself, then left to meet Caden at the park.

Caden was already there, and Oliver felt himself lighten just seeing the other boy. Caden smiled at him, and took Oliver’s hand, tangling their fingers together. Oliver felt less suffocated when he was with Caden, and he didn’t have to think about Sherlock and John and the stress at home. Caden listened to him vent, and wouldn’t try solve everything, but was just _there_ for Oliver.

They walked around the park, laughing and talking. Caden either held his hand or put his arm over Oliver’s shoulders, and it was nice. He felt like Caden really cared about him, which was a wonderful feeling. He knew John and his grandparents cared about him, obviously, but with Caden it was different.

“We should run away together,” Caden said, grinning in the way that made Oliver’s face feel warm.

Oliver laughed. “No!”

“It could be fun!” Caden said, swinging Oliver in front of him and taking both his hands. “We can go anywhere we want - or take over the world together!”

Oliver grinned that him, the wind ruffling both of their hairs. “In you dreams, Caden Morstan.”

* * *

That weekend when Sherlock was out for some reason and John and Oliver were home, they sat in the kitchen while waiting for dinner to cook. Oliver was trying to read, but his leg was bouncing and he had to keep re-reading the same paragraph.

“Oliver I need to talk to you about something,” John said, and Oliver’s stomach _dropped_.

He looked down to his lap so John wouldn’t see his face pale, and pretended to check a message on his phone.

“About what?” He managed to keep his voice even. Did Sherlock talk to John? What did Sherlock even know? Oh God, Oliver was dead. John was going to murder him and send his corpse to his grandparents. This is the end.

John hesitated. “About the… _case_ … Sherlock is on.”

Oliver looked up. The knot in his stomach started to untwist a little. “What?”

“A while ago I found a microphone tap in the cabinet,” John said. “And then I found a camera in the bookshelf.

“Someone’s… spying on us?”

John nodded.

Oliver shifted, sitting up straight in his chair. “For how long? Who? Were there anymore? Wait - was it one of Uncle Mycroft's?”

John shook his head. “We asked him, and he was concerned about it.” John started to explain that Mycroft had done some digging and found a small organization in London connected to Moriarty’s people. Of course Oliver new all about that - it had been on the news for months, and though John and him never really talked about it, Oliver knew what it meant to him and Sherlock.

“Did you find any more cameras or microphones in the flat?” Oliver asked.

“A few,” John said, looking hesitant. “One in Mrs H’s, two in the hall, and a few around this flat. Even one in my room.”

Oliver felt itchy all of the sudden. “Were there any in my room?”

John looked towards Oliver’s room, hesitating like he wanted to say something more, but then just said, “Just a mic.”

Oliver fiddled with the edge of his book, looking away. Someone had been in their _home_ , planting taps. Why? Because of Sherlock? Where people after him?

John could probably see the anxiety on his face, and he said, “Sherlock and I are working with Mycroft to figure out who was planting them and why. That’s actually why he’s out right now.”

Oliver still felt weird. Someone could hear everything he said to anyone in his room for who knows how long. It make his skin prickle and he felt sick.

“But, Oliver,” John said, “Because of this, there are people out there who know - well, they know you’re Sherlock’s biological son. That information wasn’t out there before, and it puts you in danger.”

Oliver nodded and swallowed.

“So when you go out, I need you to check in a lot more,” John said, tilting his head to catch Oliver’s eyes. “I need to know where you are at all times.”

“O-Okay,” Oliver murmured. He felt paranoid going to bed that night, and ended up staying awake until almost three in the morning, searching every inch of his room for cameras or microphones. When he finally collapsed in bed, he was relieved he didn’t find any, but fell asleep to nightmares.

* * *

The last few days leading up to the end of the month passed slowly, and John and Sherlock decided to start searching the flat every few days, so they might be able to pinpoint a time the bugs are being planted. They found some more, but it was way less than the last time and everyone still looked uneasy after finding them.

Oliver helped, since he was smaller than both of them and could crawl under the beds and sofa with ease, even climb up to look on the bookcase without getting hurt. All three of them were tense during the times they searched, but it was also one of the only times Sherlock and Oliver seemed to tolerate each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooo, what does Sherlock know?? And hmm, why does Caden's name sound familiar?
> 
> Happy day-after-Halloween! And good luck to anyone starting NaNoWriMo today!
> 
> So, not super happy with this chapter. There's probably mistakes because I only had time to skim-edit it. But oh boy. This is where everything really STARTS. Also... yikes. You guys may _actually_ kill me for everything that's going to happen in the next chapter. It gets _dark_.


	8. Sagittarius “The Archer”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for some _very_ heavy themes in this chapter. There are some potentially triggering topics, so please read with caution.

The last few days of August crawled by, and school was starting soon for Oliver. John tried to ask him about school, if he was excited or nervous, but Oliver sort of shrugged all of his questions off. Oliver still went out a lot, but he didn’t hang out with Emily, and he sent John sporadic messages to let him know he was with Caden.

At least there hadn’t been fighting between any of them since last week. Everything really was going okay. They all sort of did their own thing. John went to work, he didn’t know what Sherlock did during the day, and Oliver was out most of the time.

Then one evening, Oliver found a camera in his room.

John had been in the sitting room with Sherlock, when Oliver shouted from his room, and John shot up, rushing to him.

John found Oliver standing in the middle of his room, pointing towards his closet door. “There’s a camera,” He whipped his head towards John, his eyes wide and breathing sped up. “There’s a  _ camera _ ! That wasn’t there last night!”

John looked towards the closet and up in the shadows of the doorframe, and shiny black piece of metal, looking like a marble, glinted off the light. It looked exactly like the other cameras they had found.

“ _ It wasn’t  _ there _ last night _ ,” Oliver said again, curling his fingers into his hair. John recognized it as a sign of an oncoming panic attack. “Someone was  _ in my room _ while I was sleeping. Some  _ came in here _ and I didn’t even know!”

“Oliver, wait, look at me,” John said, taking Oliver’s wrists and pulling his hands away from his head. Oliver’s breath was coming faster, on his way to hyperventilation. “I know it’s scary, but you’re okay. Hey, focus - you’re okay.”

Oliver’s watering eyes kept going back to the camera, not really focused, and John could feel the boy’s arms shaking in his grasp. John looked around Oliver’s room trying to find something Oliver could hold, something he could distract himself with, when he remembered the rubik’s cube was still in the sitting room. John looked out his door, and saw Sherlock standing at the end of the hall. He looked genuinely concerned and hesitant, watching Oliver devolve.

He let go of Oliver’s wrists and stepped into the doorway, pointing towards the desk in sitting room. “Can you grab his Rubik’s cube?”

Sherlock looked behind him, nodded and went to go get it. John turned back to Oliver who had dropped to a crouch and was pulling at his hair again, eyes closed. This is one of the first actually bad panic attacks Oliver’s had in a long time. John crouched down next to him and pulled his hands from his hair again.

“You have to focus on me,” John said. “You’re going to pass out if you keep breathing like that.”

Sherlock held out the Rubik’s cube at the edge of his vision and John took it, wrapping Oliver’s hands around it. John smoothed down Oliver’s hair where it stuck up from him pulling at it while Oliver tried to slow his breathing.

“We’re taking care of it, okay?” John assured. “We’re checking the rooms almost everyday, and we’ll make sure to lock your window and door at night, sound good?”

Oliver nodded, his eyes squeezed shut. He took a shuddering breath, but his hands were still shaking and his skin looked clammy.

“I’m okay,” Oliver mumbled.

“Do you want to sit in the living room?”

He shook his head. “I’m going to crush that camera and then lay down.”

“Okay, I’m going to be out here,” John said, standing up and pulling Oliver with him. Oliver nodded and John stepped out of his room and shut the door.

John sighed, then turned to Sherlock. “That hasn’t happened in a while.”

“It’s been worse than that too?” Sherlock phrased it almost like a fact, but his voice lifted at the end of the sentence.

“Yeah, much worse,” John said, passing Sherlock and walking back into the sitting room. He turned and lowered his voice. “But you knew about his anxiety, right?”

Sherlock nodded, following John out of the kitchen. “I’ve always known, yes, but I’ve only seen a few of the episodes. It started when he was roughly eight years old out of the blue, and became progressively worse.”

John had already known a little bit about that, but some tiny part of him was glad Sherlock knew too. He wasn’t totally oblivious to Oliver’s life.

Other than that incident, everything was at a peaceful standby for a few days. John and Sherlock still didn’t talk about their semi-permanent solution of sharing a bed, and Sherlock’s clothes were slowly migrating to John’s room anyways. He really didn’t mind, but they also avoided talking about what that meant for them. John didn’t think either of them knew.

They still needed to talk about Sherlock and Oliver’s relationship. All of them needed to, but mostly Sherlock and Oliver themselves needed to sit down and talk to each other. Sherlock started making the effort to not give into Oliver’s antagonizing, and Oliver stopped doing it as often since John would scold him for it. But… they’re okay. Things were okay.

It’s a week into September, Oliver is out with his friend and they decided to check for taps again when things change.

Usually, if they were thoroughly checking the halls, Mrs Hudson’s, and all of 221B it took well over two hours, but if they were just checking the usual spots they found things in, it took about an hour. They hadn’t found anything new yet, which was a relief. The last time they checked a few days ago there had been two microphones in the sitting room and that was it.

They’re finishing checking in Oliver’s room when John slides his hand between the mattress and the wall at the end of Oliver’s bed and his fingers brush across something papery. On instinct, he pulls it out and feels his entire body tense and heart drop into his stomach at seeing the box of cigarettes in his hand. He stands up, feeling like the floor vanished from beneath his feet.

“Please tell me these are yours,” John said. Sherlock looked up from checking the windowsill, and his eyebrows drew together.

He shook his head. “I haven’t smoked in over a year.”

John dragged his teeth across his lower lip and opened the pack, relieved to see none of the cigarettes were missing. The fact that they are even in Oliver’s room and  _ hidden _ means they’re here for a reason, though. John looked to Sherlock again.

“Is he smoking?”

Sherlock shifted on his feet, opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated like he was trying to decide something. Then he said, “Yes, he is.”

“Did you know before now?” John asked. Of course John missed it, he’d been so self-absorbed lately, but there’s no way Oliver could have gotten it past Sherlock, right?

“I… suspected it. But wasn’t entirely sure, I thought maybe it was just his friend who was doing it,” Sherlock said. “Reading Oliver… is hard. Because he knows how to avoid me. Though I thought he might have confided in you by now. You two are close.”

John clenched his fist around the package. “Well, I thought we were.”

* * *

Oliver liked to go to that warehouse with Caden, but it had just finished storming outside and the building was prone to collapse on  _ good _ days, so instead they were hanging out at Caden’s flat. His parents weren’t home again, which Caden said was a normal thing. Caden’s bedroom is almost as dull as the rest of the house, but it smells like Caden and smoke and the television is on.

They were lounging on his bed together, Oliver with his head on Caden’s shoulder, much more interested in the way Caden’s lips gently held the end of a cigarette between drags than the television. Caden and him had taken pills a little while ago, and Oliver didn’t bother asking what it was. It’s something they’d both taken a few times before and it’s Oliver’s favorite. The first thing he’d taken after his fight with Emily had made his body feel hot and his heart beat too fast, but this made him feel relaxed and a little sluggish. It made it easier to just focus on one boring thing than the millions of things his brain always tried to comprehend.

Regardless, he liked it. And he liked it when Caden was with him.

Caden leaned across Oliver and put his cigarette out on the chipped nightstand, burning a hole in the wood and flicking the bud away. He started to sit back again, but put his hand up to Oliver’s face and kissed him instead. Oliver felt himself melt under Caden’s rough hand and soft lips. Oliver put his hand on Caden’s chest, curling his fingers in his shirt.

Caden pulled back and said, “Let’s have sex.”

Oliver leaned away from him, into the pillow, “I - I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t,” Oliver said, turning his head away so he didn’t have to look at Caden.

Caden’s hand stroked his cheek. “It’s really fun, I promise.”

Oliver shook his head and squirmed, feeling claustrophobic. He pushed Caden off him and stood up, unbalanced, and ran a hand through his curls. Caden stood up too, turning Oliver towards him.

“Don’t you want to know what it’s like?” Caden asked.

Oliver looked away again. “Um…”

Caden pushed him and his back hit the bed with a thump. Caden crawled on top of him and he scrambled backwards until his head hit the wall and Caden was trapping him. Oliver looked up at Caden with wide eyes, the older boy’s hands on the bed on either side of Oliver’s head so he couldn’t move away. He swallowed thickly, wondering what the hell Caden was doing.

Caden smirked, then leaned down and kissed him again, but it felt weird. He pulled away slightly, then his lips were on Oliver’s jaw and neck. Oliver’s breath hitched and he put his hand on Caden’s shoulder, curling the fabric between his fingers. He’d never felt like this before; something swirled in his gut, making his stomach flutter. He couldn’t focus enough to think straight because of the drug and cigarette smoke filling the room.

Oliver shut his eyes, trying to clear his head, but the feeling of lips on his skin felt like fire. Caden’s hand somehow made it’s way under Oliver’s shirt, and his fingers were warm where they trailed across his stomach. It felt nice, so he tilted his head to kiss Caden again, but then those fingers were at the top of his jeans, pulling until the button came open.

Oliver broke the kiss and grabbed Caden’s wrist. “Wait - I don’t -”

Caden moved his hand away and pushed it through Oliver’s hair. “You’re fine, it will be fun, right?”

Caden leaned down to kiss his neck again, and his hand was back at Oliver’s jeans, pulling down the zipper. Oliver’s hands tightened on Caden’s shoulders and Caden laughed before his hand moved into Oliver’s jeans. Oliver tensed, and jerked away from Caden, shoving him away and moving out from under him. He brought his knees up to his chest, his face red.

“I said I don’t want to. I’m sorry.”

Caden sighed and rolled his eyes. “How long are you going to make me wait?”

Oliver opened his mouth, but Caden grabbed his ankles and pulled Oliver towards him, until he had Oliver pinned again. Oliver pushed at his chest, but his arms felt heavy and he was tired because of those stupid pills.

“Stop it, Caden. You’re scaring me.”

Caden grabbed his chin so Oliver would look at him and said, “Don’t you think you can give me this? I always have to wait around for you, and I listen to the problems you have with your parents all the time. What about what I want?”

He glared at Caden, yanking his chin away. “Bugger off, Caden. I want to go home.”

Caden’s face twisted and Oliver started to move out from under him, but Caden grabbed his wrists and slammed them onto the bed by his head, his knee wedged between Oliver’s thighs.

“Caden!” Oliver tugged at his arms. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Caden bent down and Oliver froze, feeling his tongue run up Oliver’s neck and onto his jaw. He felt sick. Caden’s hand was at his pants again, and Oliver gasped, feeling his face go red when Caden grabbed him between the legs. He whipped his head to the side, and used his free hand to shove Caden’s face away. Caden laughed, curling his fingers around the hem of Oliver’s jeans and pulling them past his hips.

“Fuck off!” Oliver shouted, kicking his legs, trying to find purchase on anything. His heel snagged Caden’s hip, and he kicked him off. Caden grunted, stumbling away from the bed. Oliver sat up, and a  _ slap _ rung through the room. 

Oliver sat there, stunned, his hand at his cheek. The television was the only sound now, low in the background. Caden slapped him. It hurt. Bad.

“God, you’re such a fucking wuss,” Caden sighed.

Oliver snapped out of it and threw himself off the bed, yanking his jeans back up and fixing them, feeling the backs of his eyes twinge. He would not cry. He was  _ not _ going to cry - he’s not a baby. He picked his hoodie up off the floor and tugged it on, looking at Caden who was lighting another cigarette and sitting on the edge of the bed.

He left Caden’s room, slamming the door and found himself rushing down the stairs and out the door, then out of the building. His chest hurt and his eyes stung, on the verge of tears, but he ran. Oliver ran down the street, furiously wiping at his eyes, swinging corners and bolting across the streets. His feet were bringing him to Emily’s house because he couldn’t go home like this - still high and smelling like a pack of cigarettes.

He banged on Emily’s front door, hoping to God that her aunt didn’t answer. He didn’t know why he was here, but his tears were blurring his vision and his cheek stung and his entire body was shaking with maybe embarrassment or anxiety, he couldn’t tell.

The door swung open and Emily stood there, scowling - Oliver hadn’t seen her in weeks and it felt  _ so good _ to see her face again, even when he watched her emotions drop to shock at the sight of him.

“Oliver, what happened?” She reached out, taking his arm and guiding him inside. Emily shut the door and sat next to Oliver on the couch.

Oliver finally just let himself sob, covering his face with the sleeves of his hoodie, embarrassed and full of shame and anger. What the hell had Caden been thinking? Why was Oliver so upset about it? He was being a baby, everything was fine, he shouldn’t even be upset. Emily’s hand rested on his back while he hid his face from her, bending so his head touched his knees. He didn’t know why it felt like a hole had ripped through his chest or why his hands were cold despite the heat in his face.

“What happened?” Emily asked again, her voice soft and her hand on his back.

Oliver took a shuddering breath, his sobs turning to hiccuping gulps, and he dragged his sleeves across his face. “You can’t be mad,” he mumbled, turning to look at her and sniffing.

She nodded.

“Um, I,” he took another shaking breath. “I was at Caden’s flat, a-and, um -”

Emily frowned and Oliver looked down at his shaking hands. His eyes stung, and he blinked away the tears that wanted to fall again.

“He wanted to - um, do stuff,” Oliver glanced at Emily but looked away. “And I said no, but - he still… he tried to anyways?”

Emily stood up and stepped away from him, and Oliver watched the back of her head for a moment. Then she turned around to look at him, her fists clenched. Oliver wiped at his eyes again, the tops of his cheeks feeling raw from his sleeves. Emily looked livid and he really hoped she wasn’t mad at him, so he fidget with his sleeves, looking down until she spoke.

“You need to stop seeing him, he’s an asshole.”

Oliver’s throat felt dry when he muttered, “He’s not, he just - he wanted to and I didn’t.”

“Exactly! Should have listened to you,” Emily insisted. “You said no, right?”

“Of course I did!”

“That makes him an ass for not listening! He’s always been like this!”

He stood up, frowning. “No he’s not! He was probably just out of it today, I doubt he even meant to!”

“You can’t  _ defend him _ ,” Emily looked at him with wide eyes. “He’s been manipulating you since you met! You just can’t see it because you’re too blindly head over heels.”

Oliver felt his face get hot. “He’s not manipulating me! Caden’s the only one who’s there for me anymore!”

“He just wants you to think that! Can’t you see he’s messing you up?”

“He cares about me!”

“ _ I _ care about you!”

Oliver stepped back, chest heaving and ran from her house and down the street. A car honked at him and tyres squealed on pavement as he darted across a busy road and into an alley. He panted hard, leaning back against the bricks and shutting his eyes. Why did he even go to her? He huffed, shoving his hands in his hoodie pocket and his fingers brushed across a cigarette he forgot was in there. He pulled it out and lit it with a lighter he stole from Caden, not caring if anyone saw him.

He scrubbed at his face, then took a long drag. The first few calmed him immediately, pushing Caden and Emily to the back of his mind with thick smoke. His lungs spasmed when he inhaled again, making his breathing sound shaky and stunted.

Oliver didn’t want to think about them. He didn’t want to feel betrayal or hurt or the embarrassment - he didn’t want to feel anything. He yanked his sleeve up, pulled the cigarette from his mouth, and pressed the lit end to the inside of his elbow, holding it there for a few seconds. The white hot pain cleared his mind and he felt nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes. So... this isn't even the worst of it...


	9. Ursa Major “The Greater Bear”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost didn't post this today because I had a really rough week and today kinda snuck up on me. But, here it is! A few hours late, but at least it's out.

It’s late and Oliver hadn’t come home yet.

John sat on the sofa, waiting for him. He had found the cigarettes almost two hours ago, and he hadn’t decided if he was going to talk to Oliver about it yet or not, but the pack was in the trash now.

His cell started ringing, and he checked it to see Molly’s home phone number on his screen. He hit the answer button and held it up to his ear.

“Hello?”

“This is Emily,” She sounded upset. Worry curled in John’s gut. Why would she be calling him?

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Oliver.” She answered, and John’s heart thudded in his chest. “Something happened between him and Caden, and I’m really worried. He was just here, but he ran out. I’m - I’m afraid he’s going to hurt himself.”

John swallowed, a million ways Oliver could harm himself running through his head while a pit started to eat at his stomach. “Okay, thank you for letting me know, I’ll find him.”

Sherlock looked up from the desk when John ended the call, his eyebrows raised.

“That was Molly’s niece, Emily. She said something happened between Oliver and his friend - she’s worried Oliver’s going to hurt himself,” John explained, feeling sick.

Sherlock opened the laptop on the desk. “His phone is GPS enabled?”

John nodded, stepping over to the desk and leaning over Sherlock to pull up the app. The blinking dot that marked their son stood out against the map, a few streets from where Molly lived. Unmoving, but there.

John looked down at his phone and called Oliver, but the boy didn’t answer. Flashes of an abandoned phone on a park bench, snow falling gently around it filled his mind. Oliver, missing for two days and turning up, looking detached with Mycroft’s hand on his shoulder.

“I’m going to get him,” John said, shoving his feet into his shoes.

Sherlock stood from the desk. “You’ll make it worse, whatever the problem is.”

“What if he’s  _ hurt _ , Sherlock?” John asked, wishing for Sherlock to have a magic answer telling him Oliver was fine.

“Do you think he would do something like that?”

“I - I don’t know.”

Sherlock gestured to the laptop, where that blinking dot still didn’t move. “Molly’s niece called only a minute ago, and I doubt she would have waited long to call after he left her house. He’s only been alone for a few minutes. If he’s upset, he’ll want space.”

“Sherlock, I can’t just  _ leave him there _ ,” John said, his voice low and desperate.

“Give him a little while. Watch this,” Sherlock said, pointing to the screen. “And if it doesn’t move in ten, fifteen minutes, we’ll go get him.”

John stared at the screen, dead terrified. He knew Sherlock was right, if John went after him and tried to bring him home now, Oliver would put up a fight and wouldn’t talk to him. Whatever was wrong, John needed to trust he would be okay, and give him time to cool off. John glanced at Sherlock, nodded, then moved to sit down at the desk again.

And, as expected, Sherlock was right. After eight minutes, the little dot started moving towards Baker Street. Slowly, but moving nonetheless. It’s a long walk from that area, usually a ten minute cab ride, so John sat there and didn’t take his eyes off the dot for almost twenty minutes. He didn’t stop watching until the dot, Oliver, rounded the corner to Baker Street. Only then did he let himself exhale a huge breath of relief and exit the app.

A moment later, the door downstairs opened and John looked to Sherlock, who stood in the kitchen, leaned over the newspaper on the table.

The door to the flat opened, and Oliver stepped inside, his hood up and head down. He closed the door softly behind himself, crossed his arms over his chest and started to walk into the kitchen, hunched in.

John stood up from the desk. “Oliver.”

Oliver stopped, but didn’t turn around and didn’t answer. His shoulders tensed up as John walked towards him. John put his hand on Oliver’s shoulder to turn him, and Oliver clearly smelt of cigarettes. John scrunched his nose, but didn’t say anything yet.

“Are you all right?” John asked. Sherlock stood in the kitchen, watching them.

Oliver answered, his voice very soft, “Yeah, I’m fine, I just want to go to bed.”

He stated to turn, but John stopped him with his hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “Seriously, Oliver, Emily just called me-”

Oliver jerked away, shoving John’s hand off and snapped, “Whatever she said is none of your business.”

John dropped his hand, his panic skyrocketing. Something was wrong, really wrong - this wasn’t like Oliver at all.

“Oliver.” John said, firm. “You need to talk to me,” he pulled Oliver’s hood off and grabbed his chin, turning his face so John could see his eyes. Oliver’s eyes were red, and the skin around them raw from crying. Sherlock shifted in the kitchen and John ignored him. He didn’t like this at all, whatever was going on with Oliver.

Oliver pulled his face away and stepped back. “I’m fine! Just leave me alone, okay?”

“I’ve always given you independency, Oliver, and as much freedom as you want,” John said. “And I’ve always trusted you, but now I need you to talk to me. I need you t0 tell me what’s been going on with you the past few weeks.”

Oliver crossed his arms and looked away, sneering. “Why do you care?”

He couldn’t believe this, he should have been paying more attention to Oliver. He seemed fine that Sunday they spent together recently. Now he seemed so  _ angry _ , just like he used to be. Like when he used to turn his back on John and keep those big headphones over his ears, and run home from school everyday, and lock himself in his room. John couldn’t let Oliver revert like that, he’d been so happy this past year, what was changing in his head?

John grabbed Oliver’s shoulders. “What has gotten into you? Huh? Look at me!”

Oliver glared up at him, his dark curls casting a shadow over his eyes.

“You can’t keep doing this,” John tightened his grip on Oliver, searching his eyes. “You’re scaring me!”

Oliver looked away quickly, his gaze dropping to the floor on their left. John was silent for a moment, wait for him to say  _ anything _ , when Sherlock said from the kitchen, “What are you on?”

John looked up at Sherlock, and he felt Oliver flinch under his hands. He grabbed Oliver’s chin again, making him meet John’s eyes. “Are you on something right now? Did you take something?”

Oliver yanked away from him, stepping back again. “It’s not like you care! You two are so absorbed in each other, pretending your feelings don’t exist you’ve barely noticed anyways! I’ve been getting away with this, and would have today too if it wasn’t for  _ Emily _ .”

Oliver swung away and ran into his room, slamming his door.

“Oliver!” John shouted, then heard the lock against the sudden silence of the flat.

John’s hands shook as he ran them through his hair.  _ ‘I’ve been getting away with this, and would have today too if it wasn’t for Emily.’  _ How long had he been hiding this? John turned to Sherlock, “How long, do you think?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t know, but this obviously wasn’t the first time.”

“Could you tell what it was?” The last thing any of them needed was for Oliver to be hooked on something dangerous. It already infuriated and worried John out of his mind that Oliver would even think to take something. Oliver was smarter than that.

“It had to of been taken almost two hours ago, and the effect of the cigarettes dulled it,” Sherlock said. “I doubt whatever it was is addictive, he hasn’t shown any signs of dependence on a drug. Like I said before, Oliver knows how to hide things from me. Maybe I was picking up on the drug use rather than the cigarettes before.”

John dragged his hand down his face, his stomach twisting.  _ Drug use _ . He couldn’t believe  _ Oliver _ would do this. There had to be more to it, he knew how smart Oliver was. Oliver  _ knew _ better, right? John moved across the living room and collapsed on the sofa. John had felt like something was wrong, but when had  _ this _ started?

Sherlock walked into the sitting room and sat next to him.

“Have I been ignoring him?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. John leaned forward and put his head in his hands. Then why hadn’t noticed that Oliver had gotten this bad?

“This is shit,” John said. “I’ve been a shit parent.”

“Well… you’re a better one than me.”

John looked over at Sherlock, who shrugged, and John gave a dry laugh, shaking his head. Then he frowned, looking down at the floor again. He felt awful, Oliver was spiralling and John had barely noticed. He leaned back on the couch, looking up at the ceiling and let out a sigh. On the sofa cushion, Sherlock’s hand found his and they entwined their fingers, like they did in the silence of John’s room sometimes.

It felt innocent and reassuring, and John squeezed his hand.

* * *

John came downstairs the next morning after not surprisingly getting almost no sleep. Sherlock had stayed up with him all night while they lay in his bed together, not really talking. Despite this, Sherlock was still out of bed and downstairs before John. After filling the kettle and plugging it in, he glanced down the hall, and Oliver’s door was still shut.

For a moment, debated going and knocking on the door but John didn’t want to get in a fight this early. He also found himself not trusting Oliver to stay in the flat, so instead, John checked the GPS to make sure Oliver hadn’t left. It was a cowardly thing to do, but he’d rather Oliver be locked up in his room than storming out early in the morning.

“Mycroft texted,” Sherlock said from the sitting room. John looked up. “He has a hit for that organization that might be behind the taps, but we need to go  _ now _ .”

John’s glad he’s dressed, because a second later, they’re throwing on their coats and running out the door. John freezes on the stairs, looking back towards the flat and wondering if he even should leave Oliver home alone.

“John! We need to  _ go _ ,” Sherlock said, halfway out the door, watching John.

Making a split second decision, John ran after Sherlock, sending Oliver a text telling him he doesn’t want Oliver going out today. He’s just going to have to trust Oliver a little longer, but as soon as they returned home, he needed to sit Oliver down to talk to him.

Sherlock is talking, as he’s trying to hail a cab, “Mycroft’s men may have found a possible headquarters location for the operation, and if we’re there during the bust, we could get answers as to who is spying on us.”

John nodded, his adrenaline already pumping as he jumped in the cab after Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, warning, the next chapter I've literally been planning from the beginning of this ENTIRE series. It's intense.
> 
>  
> 
> On a totally unrelated note, are any of y'all Dan and Phil fans? If you are, and are going to the Interactive Introverts tour, hmu [on tumblr](http://for-the-shipping.tumblr.com/) so we can talk about it! Or, just message me in general, I love talking to any of you!


	10. Sagitta “The Arrow”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a couple days late, I'm really sorry.

Oliver woke up really late, after eleven in the morning, which was unusual for him, and he didn’t even want to get out of bed. It’s because of all the stupid emotional stuff that happened yesterday. He buried his face in his pillow and groaned. His body felt heavy and anxiety rolled in his stomach. He curled up and wished he could stay that way forever.

Eventually, he rolled over and checked his phone, relieved and almost… disappointed… to see a message saying John and Sherlock had left the flat. At least he didn’t have to face them yet. There was a message from Emily too, but he deleted it and dropped his phone on the mattress next to him.

He still didn’t want to get out of bed, but he felt gross so he dragged himself up and took a shower. When he had dressed, he cautiously checked the flat, just to make sure John and Sherlock were _actually_ gone, and they are, which eased his anxiety a little bit. He’d have to face them sooner or later. He preferred later.

Oliver pulled the milk out of the fridge and drank straight from it because John wasn’t here to scold him for it, then stood at the counter and made a sandwich. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate. Maybe yesterday morning? Did he eat breakfast yesterday?

His fingers itched for a cigarette to dull his thoughts away, and his stomach knotted, because John _knew_. John must know, because Oliver came home blatantly smelling like cigarettes, and Sherlock graciously pointed out he’d taken drugs. Oliver put down his sandwich, suddenly not hungry. The look on John’s face when Sherlock asked what he was on made Oliver sick. He dumped his sandwich in the trash.

There were two packs of cigarettes in his room, and he felt a surge of anxiety. He rushed into his room and dug the first one out from between two unused canvases, and rooted around his bed, trying to find the other one. It had been crammed between his mattress and the wall. It must have fallen. He slid to the floor and looked under his bed, but it wasn’t there. Where the hell did he put it? Wait - did they search the flat last night?

“Oh God,” Oliver mumbled. If they searched the flat last night, John probably found the other pack. At least that was the unopened one. Oliver took the one that he still had stashed and shoved it deep into the rubbish bin, then covered it up.

Oliver sighed, rubbing his hand through his hair.

His phone beeped from his room, and he went and picked it up. A message from Caden glowed off the screen. He didn’t want to think about Caden, or anything that happened yesterday. He chewed the inside of his cheek, and opened the message.

It read ‘ _I’m so sorry about yesterday’_.

Then a second one came through, ‘ _I was way out of line, will you let me apologize?_ ’ and Oliver felt his gut twist. A third message, ‘ _you don’t have to come over, we could go to the warehouse’_.

Oliver bit his lip, not sure if he even wanted to see Caden. Two more messages showed up, ‘ _I want to make it up to you_ ’ and ‘ _you can even bring emily if it makes you feel better'_.

The thing is, Oliver wants to forgive him. He wants things to just go back to having fun with Caden and ignoring everything at home. But John’s message said he didn’t want Oliver going out today.

Oliver spun his phone in his hand. There’s no way he’d bring Emily even if he did go. She already rat him out to John. He did want to go see Caden, because he wanted them to be okay, but he was still worried. He put a hand to his hair, tugging at a curl. Then he saved Emily’s contact in his phone to speed dial, because if Caden was going to be awful again, he’d rather call her than anyone else right now. If he was going to leave, John didn’t need to know. John was with Sherlock on a case, so what were the actual chances that he’d look at the tracker on Oliver’s phone? He could just go to the warehouse quick and be home quick.

He made his decision, and let the flat. The clock on his phone read almost one in the afternoon, and he figured he’d aim to be back home by two. He crept past Mrs Hudson’s and out the flat, shutting the door softly. He didn’t know if John had told her to keep an eye on him or not.

He hailed a cab and took it to the street near the warehouse, paid the driver, and stepped out to walk the rest of the way. He put his hands in his pockets and stepped in the entrance in the back of the building they always used to avoid being seen.

Caden was waiting, sitting on a crate. He looked relieved when Oliver walked in, standing up and smiling the smile that made Oliver’s heart pound.

“I’m glad you came, listen, I’m so sorry,” Caden said. “It was the pill we were on, I wasn’t thinking straight. It’s never going to happen again, okay?”

Oliver bit his lip, and wanting with his whole being to trust Caden. He always had.

Caden tilted his head, trying to catch Oliver’s eyes. “You can even punch me in the face if you want, right now. I deserve it.”

Oliver snorted and shook his head. Caden looked desperate, and sounded sincere. Oliver believed him, and hoped it was the right thing to do. “Okay,” Oliver said. “I forgive you, but I’m done taking those pills.”

Caden nodded eagerly, “Me too. I hate myself for doing that to you.”

Oliver moved so he was standing next to Caden and bumped his shoulder, “Let’s just forget about it.”

“Yeah,” Caden smiled.

They started walking around, like they usually did at the warehouse. Even though they came here a few times a week, there was always something new or weird for them to find. New graffiti, another broken window, a door that hadn’t been opened before. A dead cat lay rotting by one of the windows, half eaten by some other animal, flies buzzing around it. Oliver scrunched his nose and looked away, while Caden picked up a rock and threw it at the corpse.

A large wooden beam had broken off the ceiling and fallen to the floor, leading up to the second floor. Oliver put his foot on it, testing the balance, then put his arms out and rushed up it. A section of the building they hadn’t been able to get to before was open now, the walls bare of graffiti. Not much besides a file cabinet laying on its side and broken lumber lay up there, so he walked back down.

Oliver and Caden laughed and talked, and things felt fine again.

Caden picked up a can and chucked it across the room, letting it clang off a metal door. “So, was your dad mad when you got home? You must have reeked of smoke.”

“Er… yeah, I guess,” Oliver played with the string on his hoodie. “But I acted sort of awful too, and he freaked out. Sherlock could tell I was high, and told John.”

“Did he know what it was?”

Oliver shrugged. Maybe. Probably. He had been easily hiding it from Sherlock, and the man had suspected but yesterday all that had been ruined. Ugh, he didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to think about going home and sitting down to talk to them, he didn’t want to go through any of that. Oliver wished he could pretend none of that happened. He wished yesterday didn’t happen. Caden was right, they should run away together, no more problems.

“They weren’t even there when I woke up,” Oliver said, feeling angry. John made a big deal about it last night, but how bad could it actually be if he didn’t stay home? “They were probably on a case. It doesn’t matter.”

He wished John would just stay home with him instead of going with Sherlock.

Caden chuckled. “For people who are supposed to be damn smart, I’m surprised they didn’t notice at all before now.”

Oliver shrugged, kicking a rock. John really was clever, even if the man didn’t realize it. There’s just… a lot going on. Oliver knew he wasn’t making it any easier; he also took lengths to hide it. He felt guilty, just a little.

“I mean…” Oliver bit his lip. “They have other important stuff going on. I guess I understand.” _But I’m his son_.

Caden scoffed, and his voice changed a little. “They couldn’t even see that all the answers were staring them in the face.”

That didn’t make sense. Oliver stopped walking. “What?”

Caden turned to face him, a few steps away, and smirked at him. “Well, I ruined you and it took them this long to notice.”

“What are you talking about?” Oliver’s hands felt numb. This was wrong. Wrong, wrong wrong, wrong. Everything about this was wrong.

“Emily caught on, but you’re so desperate for physical attention you ignored the fact that I’ve been brainwashing you, and using our _friendship_ ,” he made quotes with his fingers, “to spy on Holmes.”

Oliver felt the world stop spinning, and there was nothing in the universe but him, Caden, and tiny little things flashing through his mind from the past few months. “The cameras…”

Caden spread his arms out, a grin Oliver’s never seen before on his face. “ _Bingo,_ dumbass.”

A hole ate through Oliver’s very core, and he wanted to be swallowed up by the ground and never see day again.

“Honestly,” Caden said as he started to walk again. Oliver felt glued to the spot, he couldn’t even look at Caden. “I’m glad my part in this game is over, because you’re _exhausting_ , really. I can’t believe Emily is _actually_ friends with you - you’re so fucked up with the things you talk about.”

Oliver’s brain stopped working.

Caden stopped walking and turned to him. “Oh wait, after the way you pushed poor Emily away, she probably hates you now anyways. Whoops.” He laughed. “Well, you don’t have to worry about any of that anymore.”

Regaining very little control of himself, Oliver stepped backwards. His body didn’t feel like his own, like his mind had detached and he was watching his entire world fall apart in third person. His heartbeat thrummed in his ears and a voice that didn’t sound like his own shook while it asked, “What do you mean?”

“I _mean_ ,” Caden said, walking forward while Oliver kept backing up. “That it’s a good thing you _didn’t_ bring Emily with you today, because I can just end this now.”

Focus, focus, _focus, stupid_! Oliver stumbled over a piece of wood while he backed away. He looked up and Caden’s arm rushed at him, and Oliver doesn’t realize he’d been punched until he’s laying on the ground, his jaw feeling like it’s going to fall off and his eyes watering. He scrambled backwards, pulling himself off the ground and raising his arm to block another punch.

Caden’s fist connected with his forearm and he grunted - Caden’s strength outmatched Oliver’s by a million - his arm went numb. Caden shoved him, and Oliver slammed into a wall, his head snapping off the brick, his vision flashing white. He crossed his arms in front of his face, flinching away, but Caden grabbed his wrists and pulled them away from his face, then slammed him into the wall again.

Oliver gagged when Caden’s knee met his stomach, he doubled over and coughed, then Caden swung him to the floor. Oliver tried to catch himself but his right wrist landed under his weight and a sharp pain shot up the inside of his arm, making it feel numb and cold. He pushed the pain away and pulled his body up, spinning around in time to see a flash of something metal and Caden’s hand rushing at him.

There was a wet thunk as Caden’s hand met his body, the force of it pushing him back a step.

It didn’t hurt. It didn’t feel like he had been punched again.

He looked down, confused, and Caden yanked his arm away. Oliver gasped, doubling over at the sharp feeling of something being _removed_ from his body, and blood splattered to the ground. Oliver sucked in a huge breath, his head pounding.

 

 

_Stabbed_.

 

_Caden stabbed me._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	11. Scutum “The Shield”

_ I was stabbed, what do I need to do? _ Oliver was having trouble thinking. His knees hit the concrete floor, and everything rushed around him until his side hit the ground too. He clutched at his stomach, feeling the sticky warm blood ooze out between his fingers, covering his hands and making his shirt stick to his body.  _ Focus. I need to roll onto my back or I’ll bleed out too fast _ . He groaned, his mind flashing white when he rolled over. He heaved a breath, feeling like he’d run a marathon.

Oliver rolled his eyes open and saw Caden standing above him with a sneer. Oliver’s hands were going numb, and he knew he was going into shock, because the pain was dulling. Everything felt cold and wobbly and his head hurt, but Caden was standing over him with a knife and if Oliver was stabbed again, he wouldn’t have a chance.  _ Fake it _ . He inhaled, letting his eyes flutter shut and didn’t exhale. His heart pounded in his ears while he let his body go entirely limp, one of his hands falling to the side. He stayed very still, and the few seconds he had to wait felt like centuries. 

He had to stay awake, _had_ to keep thinking straight. _Math, I hate math, let’s do math._ _There’s a hundred years in a century, three-hundred and sixty-five days a year, so that’s thirty-six thousand and five hundred days a century, and -._ He heard Caden’s footsteps retreat towards the exit, and as soon as Oliver couldn't hear them he exhaled hard and opened his eyes. His head was swimming and he couldn’t see very well and he wanted to go to sleep. He needed to call for help. He kept his left hand pressed as hard as he could to the wound and reached for his pocket, feeling a jolt of pain spread from his stomach that woke him up a bit. A whine escaped his throat and sweat dripped from his forehead, but he managed to yank his phone from his pocket with an unsteady hand. He panted, his eyes squeezed shut and his phone felt heavy as he lifted it.

He could barely feel anything now, and he squinted at his phone, he couldn’t see it very well, his head felt too heavy. He dropped his phone and mumbled, “Fuck.”

Oliver dragged his shaking fingers across the screen and he heard his phone click unlocked. Muscle memory found the call button and he hit the first contact his fingers found. Oliver listened to the soft dialing sound, breathing, staying awake,  _ stay awake, awake, awake _ . 

He’s almost unconscious, he can feel himself slipping like the blood between his fingers. He thinks maybe it isn’t even worth trying to be saved when he heard the most amazing thing in the world.

“Hello?” Emily’s voice buzzed a bit over the line.

Oliver swallowed, his throat dry and he didn't know if he could even talk. But his voice came out quiet, and there’s no way he could talk louder, so he hoped she heard him. “Call… hospital,” is all he managed with a raspy, rough voice.

“Oliver?” Emily’s voice raises. “What happened? Why do you need the hospital?”

He couldn’t answer. He tried so hard, but he couldn’t. He doesn't have the strength to clutch at his wound and his left hand fell off his torso. It didn’t even matter. He was dying - he was going to die and he couldn’t even feel it. It was better this way.

* * *

The tip off was a bust, and the lead turned out to be a cold trail that lead to nothing. John and Sherlock are disappointed and on edge, sitting in the back of a cab on the way home after getting into a fight. They had been out the whole day, chasing the lead that turned out to be a dead end, and now the sun was setting and night was drawing in. The day had passed so quickly, John lost track of the time and never even got a chance to call Oliver or check in on him.

The lead had brought them to an underground facility all the way across London. No one was there and Sherlock had (brilliantly) figured out it had only been recently abandoned, but had been a base of operations, only hours ago, though barely any evidence remained. It had been totally wiped clean. The next few hours had been spent chasing a trail that led them to dead end after dead end. Everyone they had been working with had gotten irritable at the lack of anything substantial being found, and eventually someone called for them to stop. This led to Sherlock and John getting in an argument about the whole case in general and how slowly it was moving.

Regardless, the two were headed home now. John glanced at Sherlock, who was staring out the cab window, the street lights reflecting off his eyes, his fingers flexing in his lap.

John’s phone started ringing, and he picked it up without checking the caller ID, figuring it might have been Greg. There’s panicked breathing on the other end and John snapped ramrod straight, Sherlock looking at him.

“Something’s wrong!” John recognized Emily’s voice.  _ Not again _ . Emily sounded like she’s running, and her voice cracked from crying. John’s heart started to hammer in his chest when Emily said, “Oliver, he - I think he’s hurt! I - he just called me-” she cut off with a choked sob. “I called an ambulance - please, just - I don’t know what to do!”

“Where is he?” John demanded, looking at Sherlock with wide eyes. He could feel his heart in his throat and Sherlock shouted for the cab driver to pull over.

“The warehouse,” she says. “He’s - I’m, I can’t -”

John swallowed his panic, not wanting to sound like he’s as close to a heart attack as he probably is. “Okay, Emily, you need to breathe. I’m heading to him, so I’m going to hang up.”

“O-okay.”

“Stay out of the roads,” he warned, then ended the call. He hit the GPS app with clumsy fingers and Sherlock leaned over to look too. They both see the blinking dot that marks Oliver, a few streets away from them.

“We’ll get there faster if we run,” Sherlod said, unbuckling himself. “We can cut through alleys and avoid the traffic lights.”

John didn’t trust his voice, so he scrambled to get out of the cab, and then they were both running across the street, ignoring the cab driver who shouted at them for not paying. Sherlock was in the lead because John couldn’t think straight enough to figure out the right turns. His feet pounded against the pavement, and his lungs pumped hard. The world around him stopped existing in that moment, and in his mind all he could see was Oliver - falling backwards off that railing years ago. His slack pale face not breathing as John begged him to be okay.

John could hear sirens, somewhere near them.

It’s dark out, and the lamps were the only way they could see the empty streets in front of them. Sherlock swung around a corner in front of him and slipped on the pavement, his hand making contact with the ground for a moment, but kept running, his coat flying out behind him.  _ The warehouse _ , John could see it. It’s one he’s seen before, an abandoned and crumbling brick building, but why is Oliver there?

The sirens are right ahead of them, swerving into the lot around the warehouse, the lights reflecting off the dark pavement. John’s heart stopped working when he watched the paramedics jump out the ambulance and run into the building with a stretcher.

Sherlock and John ran into the car park just as the stretcher is being rushed out of the building. John forgot how to move, his feet glued to the ground. Sherlock turned back to look at John, his face stricken, but John’s looking at the stretcher and the body on it. His  _ child _ laying limp on it, a pale arm hanging off the side, covered in glistening blood, reflecting the flashing lights.

John’s too far away to tell if Oliver is awake or not, and he starts to run forward, but a police officer - when had the police cars showed up? - slammed into his chest, holding him back. Sherlock is yards away from him, shouting at a paramedic who has his hands on Sherlock’s chest, keeping him away. Sherlock’s pointing to the ambulance that the stretcher is being loaded into.

He can’t look away. John feels  _ nothing _ , nothing but his heart in his hollow chest. He didn’t know if Oliver even was alive. He didn’t know what happened -  _ where had all that blood come from _ ? Why was Oliver  _ here _ ? The officer pushed him back another step and the ambulance doors slammed shut. John tore his eyes away and looked at the officer, shouting at him.

“Let me go! You have to!” John tried to push past him again. “That’s my son! Please!

“Your son is being brought to the closest hospital, you can see him there,” The officer told John. The ambulance took off and John lost the small amount of fight built up in him. The officer stepped away. John watched the cop cars start leaving, and saw Sherlock standing to the side, blankly staring after the flashing lights.

John turned and saw Emily standing near the entrance of the building - he hadn’t even noticed she was here, she must have been inside with Oliver.

“Sherlock, get a cab,” he said, then jogged over to Emily. She’s standing stock still and John put a hand on her shoulder to turn her. Her eyes were wide, she’s covered to the elbows in blood, and it’s on her shirt and face. John felt sick. He might vomit so he stepped back. There’s so much blood, so much red.

Emily’s face is covered in tears and she’s paralyzed on the spot. “I - I…”

“Was he alive?” John asked, his voice raspy and quiet. He almost doesn’t want hear to answer.

Emily opens and closes her mouth, then whispers, looking down at her blood covered hands. “I don’t… I don’t know...”

John shuts his eyes and he doesn’t know what to do. Sherlock shouts for him, and he’s waiting by a cab. John can’t leave Emily here alone, she’s probably in shock, so he brings her to the cab. Sherlock takes the passenger seat up front and they all ignore the blood on Emily and the smell of copper. Sherlock drops a wad of cash in front of the driver and tells him to bring them to the hospital as fast as he can.

Then they take off, speeding down the road.

John’s mind is entirely empty, he can’t think or feel a thing. He doesn't know what to feel. He can see Sherlock’s leg bouncing in the front seat, his fingers tapping against his leg. Emily is staring at her hands in her lap. John wonders if the blood is going to stain her skin for the next few days.

The cab screeched to a stop at the hospital a few minutes that felt like seconds later. Sherlock jumped out of the cab and John followed, but he had to guide Emily out because he thought she might be stuck back at the warehouse in her head. Her face is placid but they rush inside. Sherlock ran to the front desk, giving Oliver’s description and name, trying to get information from the man there. A nurse nearby spot Emily and asked if she’s injured.

“No, I think she’s in shock,” John told her, and the nurse guided Emily away to take care of her. John stepped up to the desk next to Sherlock.

The man sitting behind the computer is saying, “We don’t have any information on him yet, I’m sorry, you’ll just have to wait.”

John stared at the man, who shrank away a little bit. Sherlock put his hand on John’s arm, and pulled him away a little bit. “John, leave it.”

They sat down in a mostly empty waiting room in the chairs closest to the door for the emergency wing. John stared at a spot on the carpet where someone must have spilled coffee. Oliver could be dead right now and they wouldn’t know. They didn’t know anything, they didn’t even know how badly he had been hurt. There had been so much blood...

Why had Oliver even been at that warehouse? He told Oliver to stay home and trusted him to listen. This was John’s fault, he never should have left. The guilt gnawed at his stomach. Was Oliver attacked? Did he try to - no.

Everytime the door swung open and a doctor left the ward, Sherlock jumped up to hoard them with questions, trying to catch Oliver’s doctor. John’s never felt such a hollow anxiety in his entire life. None of it felt real. Like he’d wake up and this would just be a dream. Actually - he’d felt such hollow anxiety just once before in his whole life.

* * *

It’s eleven at night and John hasn’t moved from staring at the spot in the carpet. The waiting room is empty and Sherlock’s taken to pacing around the room, wringing his hands. He sat down, then stood up, walked to the window and stayed there for a minute. Then he walked back over to John and sat down.

His voice cracked, “John.”

John finally looked up at him.

“I’m scared,” Sherlock whispers. His blue eyes are wide and they look just like Oliver’s.

“Me too,” John’s voice sounds raw.

The door swung open again and they both looked up at the woman who stepped out. “Are either of you the parent of Oliver Watson?”

John doesn’t know if he’s ready to hear what she’s about to say. She’s looking at Sherlock, for obvious reasons, but the question had been directed to both of them.

“I am,” John answered. John’s been Oliver’s legal parent for almost a year because of the adoption. Technically Sherlock doesn’t have any legal claim over Oliver now because of that. John swallowed and looked at Sherlock, but the man is watching the doctor.

“You can come see Oliver for a minute if you like,” she says. Relief washed over them. Oliver was alive. He had to be okay if John could go see him.

John stood up and gestured to Sherlock. “And him?”

“Are you family?” She asked Sherlock.

“I’m Oliver’s biological parent, but John adopted him from me.”

“You two are married?”

“N-no.” John said.

The doctor frowned, then said, “I’m sorry but only persons with full legal responsibility can see a child in the emergency ward.”

John looked at Sherlock, feeling guilty, but Sherlock shook his head, “Go.”

John nodded, and the doctor led him through the metal doors, and he finally felt a bit of relief dulling his anxiety. John didn’t know what state Oliver would be in - but he was alive.

“What happened?” John asked. They stop outside a drawn curtain, and it smells like familiar antiseptic, chemicals and the sounds of beeping John is too familiar with. He feels lightheaded and tried to focus on what the doctor is saying.

She’s looking at her clipboard, “The most blunt way to put it, is that Oliver was stabbed in an upward motion after a struggle. The knife wasn’t long enough to do too much damage, and he was extremely lucky that it missed most of his organs. Unfortunately, it nicked his liver.”

John steeled himself, and let out a breath slowly. That’s why there had been so much blood, the liver bleeds quickly. Oliver probably would have bled out if the paramedics arrived even seconds later. Wounds to the liver have an extremely low survival rate, he knew from experience. He’s surprise and a little proud that Oliver had kept himself together long enough to call for help, it must have been awful. His chest tugged thinking about it, and he just wanted to see Oliver.

“We had him in surgery to stitch the wound closed on his liver, which is what took so long, and then we had to replenish his blood, he had lost so much,” she explained, but of course John knew all this.

“What else?” John asked. “Is there evidence of the struggle?”

She glanced back down at her papers, and said, “There’s bruises from falling on his right arm, possibly from after knife wound. He has a hairline fracture to his right radius, and we had to cast it. He possibly has a concussion, but we won’t know until he wakes up.”

John looked away from her, his stomach knotting. What the hell had happened? Who had Oliver even been with? Anxiety crept up his spine, presenting him with a million different circumstances that could have led to Oliver being  _ stabbed _ . Him taking on someone twice his size, someone over powering him, him being dragged, kicking and screaming by a mugger. Did it have to do with the drugs? Had he been high? John cleared his head - he couldn’t think about that right now.

The doctor put her hand up to the curtain, but hesitated and looked at John again. “I have to ask, do you know he’s been smoking?”

John closed his hands into fists and breathed out. “Yes, we just found out.”

She bit her lip. “And… legally I’m required to tell you there’s self-inflicted burns on his arms. If they had suggested being anything other than self-inflicted, we wouldn’t have been able to let you back here, but it’s obvious.”

“ _ What? _ ” John’s voice is raw and quiet. How much more was there that he didn’t know was going on with Oliver?

The doctor sighed. “It’s not… uncommon… to find self-destructive tendencies in teenagers. I suggest when he heals more and is out of the hospital, you have him talk to a therapist. We could suggest one?”

John shook his head, feeling like none of this conversation was real. “I’ll figure it out.”

She finally pulled back the curtain and John’s stomach sank. Oliver looked so small in the hospital bed, unconscious, and surrounded by beeping machines. His heart rate monitor was a little slow, and he was connected to a dripping IV. His right wrist had a white cast on it and rested on top of the sheets. He’s pale and thin and his hair was brushed back off his head, and there’s dark rings around his eyes. He looked dead.

What had been going on in Oliver’s head the past few weeks?

“He’ll probably be awake in the morning,” the doctor said, “if nothing goes wrong the rest of the night. You can come back during visiting hours, he’ll be moved to a room.”

“Do you know who did this?”

“Sorry?”

John looked at her. “Do you know who hurt him?”

She frowned. “I wouldn’t know, I’m sorry.”

John nodded, knowing she couldn’t have known. He sighed and stepped out of the curtained off area. She pulled the curtain back and started to lead him back towards the waiting room, where Sherlock still sat. John’s tired. He’s very tired.

The doctor holds the door open for him and he walked over to Sherlock, who stood up, not bothering to ask, because he knows John will tell him. John takes a breath, and repeats back to Sherlock what the doctor had told him. Sherlock looks caught between relief, exhaustion and and anger. John can’t find it in himself to be anything but tired.

“We’ll find out who did it,” Sherlock assures him. John is looking at the floor, off to the left. Oliver looked so alone. When had everything changed again? Why? Oliver had been so  _ happy  _ and expressive the past few months. Why did it have to change?

John nodded. “I know we will. Let’s just - just come back in the morning.”

He doesn’t want to leave, but he knew it was better to. Sherlock and him needed to sleep, and Oliver would be here in the morning. Then they could start to fix things. For sure this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty sure I accidentally slipped in and out of past/present tense this chapter... whoops.
> 
> Yeah, yeah, I know it's a day late. I'M LITERALLY SO BUSY ALL THE TIME I'M SORRY ;^;


	12. Monoceros “The Unicorn”

John sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. On the back of his eyelids, all he could see was Oliver, bloody and pale. John’s trying to manage his breathing, trying to stay calm, trying to _not think_ . He could still feel his heartbeat in his throat, and he just wanted to go back to the hospital. Oliver didn’t deserve to wake up alone. John didn’t want Oliver to _be_ alone anymore.

Sherlock had been sitting next to him, quiet, for the past few minutes. The bed dipped a little under their weight, and they weren’t saying anything to each other. Just sitting - _waiting_ while John tried not to have an absolute breakdown. John wished he knew what Sherlock was thinking.

“You think he’ll be okay? At least physically?” John asked.

“Yes.”

John rubbed his palms against his eyes and sat up. “I should have been here.”

“It’s not your fault,” Sherlock said.

“But I _knew_ he was having issues, then we caught him and,” John’s voice cracked and he looked at the floor. “And we just left him here, _alone_. I should have stayed here.”

“I’m the one that told you to come with me,” Sherlock said. “Be mad at me, it’s not your fault.”

John leaned on his knees again, face back in his hands. “I don’t want to be mad at you.”

He heard Sherlock sigh, then felt Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder. His touch felt light as his fingers moved to curl into John’s hair at the back of his head.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice sounded just as raw as John felt. John lifted his head, then Sherlock moved forward and kissed him.

John kissed him back, putting his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and pressing forward, breathing him in. He broke the kiss and put his forehead on the crook of Sherlock’s neck, squeezing his eyes shut so he wouldn’t have to see Sherlock’s face. There’s a specific kind of raw internal pain that came from being confused and guilty, and not knowing how to express it. Like a cold spider in his chest, twisting and turning, spreading out and taking over. John’s throat hurt and he wanted to sob and scream and throw things, but all he could do was sit there, worry, and try not to cry.

Sherlock’s arms were wrapped around him, his fingers in John’s hair, and John twisted the front of Sherlock’s button-down in his fist, and he could feel the gentle pounding of Sherlock’s heart. John didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want to feel anymore.

* * *

 John woke up first the next morning, which rarely happened. He still wore his jeans and jumper from the night before, and he felt stiff. Sherlock lay next to him, breathing softly, his face calm. John had his arm across Sherlock’s chest, and Sherlock’s arm was under John’s head. He watched the gentle rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest, the contrast of his white pillows against Sherlock’s raven hair, his untucked blue shirt bunched at the middle.

John pulled himself away from Sherlock, careful not to wake him. He left the room, feeling empty, like he was just going through the motions. He took a shower and changed into clean clothes, then started a pot of coffee just as Sherlock walked into the kitchen, looking rumpled. It was just barely after six in the morning, and neither of them had slept very much. John slid a mug of coffee across the table for Sherlock. Sherlock rubbed a hand down his face and picked it up.

“I’m going to search Oliver’s room for cigarettes or any other drugs he might have,” John said, and the words tasted sour in his mouth. He took a sip of his scalding coffee.

Sherlock yawned, then took a drink of his own. “I’ll help after I take a shower.”

John nodded. The hospital visiting hours opened at seven thirty, so John just had to find ways to keep busy until then. He’d rather get rid of anything dangerous out of Oliver’s room now than later.

Mycroft probably already knew what happened, he was practically omniscient. John leaned back against the counter and shut his eyes. He’d have to call Violet and Sigar, who would lose their minds. John would probably leave out some details that they really didn’t need to know. He opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock, who had strode over to the mantel in the sitting room and was looking at the pictures pinned above it near the mirror.

Oliver will be okay. They could fix this.

Sherlock head into the shower a minute later, and John worked on repressing thinking about last night. Ten minutes later Sherlock is out and dressed, his black hair still wet and a little frizzy.

They stepped into Oliver’s room and a lump found its way into John’s throat. This is how it started, anyways - searching Oliver’s room. After a twenty minute search they hadn’t found any cigarette packs or drugs to John’s utter relief, but he did find two lighters. To be safe he took those and Oliver’s pen knives. That still left the problem of where Oliver had been getting the drugs and what they were, though. He had been high the other night and it seemed like it wasn’t the first time.

When John felt like they aren’t going to find anything else, they left Oliver’s room. It’s almost open visiting hours for the hospital, and something occurred to John.

“Sherlock?”

He turned.

“You should… be put back on for legal guardianship of Oliver,” John said. “So if - God forbid - anything happens again in the future, you can provide legal signatures, permission and see him in emergencies.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows had raised, and his mouth was open, before his face dropped into confusion. He looked away, his eyes flicking across the floor tiles of the kitchen. He looked back up, “Mycroft could have that done easily.”

John nodded. He didn’t want want happened at the hospital to be the case again. Leaving Sherlock in the waiting room. Oliver probably wouldn’t be in the emergency bay today, so it’d be fine - but in the future it’s safer to have both of them as legal parents.

Then they left to go to the hospital, hoping for good news.

* * *

 When they walked in and up to the front desk, it had been clear Mycroft’s influence already hit the hospital, because they led Sherlock and John up to Oliver’s room with zero problem, and the nurse had called John ‘Doctor Watson’. Oliver had his own room - generally the rooms were shared. John didn’t know if Mycroft had actually been in to see Oliver or if he had just made everything private, but he’d see Oliver eventually.

Oliver’s room was on the second floor towards the back, and when the nurse opened the door, John was glad to see Oliver awake. At the same time, it hurt. It hurt to see Oliver looking pale and breakable with dark rings under his eyes. He was looking out the window, and there was a big, blossoming bruise on his jaw. Despite the situation, and despite everything going on in their lives, it could have been a lot worse.

They really were lucky Oliver was alive.

Sherlock stayed by the closed door, but John walked to the bed.

Oliver’s voice was raw and full of gravel, when he turned to John to say, “I don’t want to talk.”

His face was devoid of any telling emotion, other than his tired eyes and the downturn of his lips.

“Oliver,” John pleaded, taking his casted hand. Oliver sighed through his nose, turning away and pulling his hand form John’s.

“I just don’t want to talk,” he whispered.

John just stood there, watching his child’s face for a moment. He didn’t want to leave Oliver here, he didn’t want to go, but Oliver was clearly not going to talk to him. He looked like he didn’t even want to be near them and it broke John’s heart. It’d be better to give Oliver some space, though, just until he’s more willing to talk. But he doesn't want to leave again, he can’t bring himself to.

John looked desperately back at Sherlock, but he looked just as lost.

The door creaked and a nurse popped her head in.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, “Do you two mind stepping into the hall for a moment while I change Oliver’s bandages?”

John looked down at Oliver one last time, but he’s just staring out the window into the city. John nodded, then Sherlock and him stepped into the hallway. The hallway was wide, mostly empty and every few yards there’s a door with chairs outside of it. John paced across the white tiled floor, his footsteps echoing, and ran a hand through his hair.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said.

“You can’t make him talk.”

“I know that, I just-” he sighed, and watched Sherlock’s fists close before watching his face.

“I know,” Sherlock said. “Me too.”

Before John knew how to respond, Sherlock’s eyes flicked behind him and John turned, a little (but not really) surprised to see Emily, standing there and fiddling with her jumper sleeves. He can still see blood stains on her nails.

“They - they let me up here,” she said. “Even though I’m not - I’m not family. Is he okay?”

John glanced at Sherlock, then nodded.

“Can I see him?” She asked. She looked shaken and tired, and John figured she might be able to talk to Oliver before he’d talk to anyone else.

John gestured to the door, “When the nurse come out, go ahead. He wouldn’t talk to us.”

Emily nodded, and leaned back against the wall a few yards away from them, fidgeting with anxiety. John wondered where Molly was.

A few moments later the nurse left Oliver’s room and gestured that they could go back in. Emily looked up, biting her lip and John nodded that she could go ahead. She slipped through the doorway and shut it behind her. John remembered Oliver telling him they had a fight a while ago and wondered if they had ever resolved it. Maybe Emily would be able to get through to Oliver better than John or Sherlock could right now. If Oliver talked to _anyone_ , really, he’d be grateful.

Sherlock put his hand on John's arm “John. I - I have a feeling this… whole thing is related to whoever is spying on us and that organization. They’ve been targeting Oliver from the start, remember?” He paused, looking at the floor. “This is my fault.”

John frowned, “It’s not-”

Sherlock cut him off, stepping away. “But it _is_ , why would they go after Oliver if it wasn’t for me being here in the first place? We have to talk to Mycroft, he must already have realized this.”

“We don’t even know if that's the reason-”

“It couldn’t be a coincidence,” Sherlock said.

“No, we have to stay here for Oliver, leaving him alone is why this happened in the first place.”

Sherlock waved towards the door “Oliver's not going anywhere now, and he’s not alone. If anything this is the safest place for him. We have to talk to Mycroft, and there's no better time to track these people than when Oliver’s out of danger. Waiting around isn't going to catch whoever did this to him.”

John glared at Sherlock, how could he even _think_ to leave Oliver _now_? “Oliver needs us to be here for him. Even if he doesn’t want to talk to us, it’s important.”

“ _I know_ , I know it’s important, but he’s safe here,” Sherlock said. “Don’t you want to find out who did this?”

John groaned in the back of his throat and looked at the closed door to Oliver’s room. He still didn’t know why Oliver left the house yesterday, or why he was at that warehouse. He felt like he _couldn’t_ leave, he was so guilty for leaving yesterday. He knew Oliver was safe here, and he knew Mycroft himself could probably watch Oliver, or even have one of his men make sure Oliver was safe at all times. They really did need to find out who did this, especially if it was related to who was spying on them. It’d be better now than when Oliver comes home.

“Fine,” John said. “Not now, though. When Emily leaves, we’re going in there and going to try again, okay? He’s going to be here for a few days anyways.”

Sherlock looked frustrated, but nodded anyways, pulling his phone out - probably to text Mycroft.

* * *

The nurse finally left Oliver's room after going through the painstaking task of changing the bandages around his torso. The entire time, Oliver purposely didn't look because he didn't want to see any of the bruises or gnarly stitching below his ribs. It made him sick enough just thinking about it. After she finished, he looked out the window again, trying to readjust himself to the dull throbbing pain.

Everything felt weird. As if yesterday was dream, or it happened to someone else. Truthfully, when he had woken up in the hospital this morning, a part of himself felt... disappointed, more than anything. Disappointed he woke up. Disappointed he had made it through bleeding out and through the surgery. Disappointed in himself. He didn't want to have to deal with everything. With John, or Sherlock, the physical pain, the emotional pain, _anything_. He just didn't want to deal with it. He was sick of it. Sick of feeling everything so intensely, or even at all. So he didn't, he didn't think about it, and he stared out at the grey sky - empty minded.

The door creaked open again and he suppressed a sigh. He wanted to be alone.

Turning his head, he watched Emily walk in and shut his eyes, willing himself not to cry. She was one of the last people he wanted to see. He didn't want her, or her anger, or her pity. He could remember calling her in the middle of all that pain, but not much else. Just sounds, a heavy pressure on his numbing stomach, flashing lights and someone sobbing. A brief moment of wavering consciousness where he could see Emily leaning over him, yelling something while tears dripped off her face.

But now, laying in the hospital, he kept his eyes shut. Oliver heard her sit down in the chair next to his bed. He didn't have the energy to talk to her, he was too embarrassed and heartbroken and mad at himself.

And she didn't talk to him.

She didn't say a single thing, just sat there, and eventually Oliver opened his eyes, wondering why. She looked so tired and her brown eyes were red around the edges. Brown like Caden's. Oliver turned his head away.

He could remember meeting her on New Year's Eve, almost two years ago now. He had hated her instantly. Oliver wished he could go back to those few months before he met Caden, when Emily and him were actually friends - even though they liked to pretend they couldn't stand each other. But it would never go back to that. Too much had changed and everything was ruined, and it was all his fault.

Oliver felt Emily's hand on his, but he didn't turn to look. He opened his palm, letting their fingers fit together, and squeezed. He wanted to cry. Oliver wanted to cry so bad, because everything hurt but the stab wound was the least of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *swaggers in on rollerblades, holding a cat and tea*  
> its a month late  
> also i hate my writing lmao


	13. Circinus “The Compasses”

John and Sherlock were still outside waiting fifteen minutes later, when Emily stepped out and shut the door.

"Are you okay?" John asked her.

She nodded. "Just... scared. I don't know."

"Oliver will be okay."

"I know." Emily looked at her hand where it rested on the door handle, blood still caked against her nails. She lifted her hand and curled her fingers, hiding the stains in a fist. "When I got there last night, Oliver was passed out and the - the blood... it was everywhere. I - I tried to stop the bleeding by pressing down on it, but he was so pale and… I thought he was dead.”

She dropped her hands, her eyes wide. "I thought he was dead and I thought it was my fault."

John's heart breaks for her, but he had to ask. "Do you know who did this?"

Emily's eyes flicked towards Oliver's door and she swallowed. "I - I might. But you need to ask Oliver, because I hope I'm wrong."

Sherlock grabbed the back of John's sleeve. He must have figured it out. John nodded, then said to Emily, "You should probably go home to your aunt." Emily crossed her arms over herself and nodded. "Will - will you call my aunt if anything happens? So she can tell me?"

"I will."

"Thank you." She said, then turned to walk down the hall. John honestly hoped she wasn't traumatized.

He turned to Sherlock. "Do you know?"

"Yes." Sherlock said. "His other friend."

John's heart sunk. The other boy - Caden. 

"John," Sherlock said, his voice urgent. "When did Oliver meet him? The other boy?"

John couldn't think straight. "Uh - Maybe, I think, April or May?"

"Shit," Sherlock scrubbed his hands through his hair. "That's around the time the trail I was following pointed back towards the UK."

"Do you think-"

"I think whoever the hell that kid is - he has something to do with all of this-" Sherlock waved his hand. "All this shit going on." 

John exhaled. "Do you think Oliver knows?"

Sherlock ran his thumb over his own lip. "He might have figured it out. We have to ask him if it really was that boy first. It Oliver can confirm it, then we have a lead and a connection."

"Okay," John said. John knew how Oliver felt about that kid - could this get any fucking worse for him? "Okay, let's just go in here and see if he'll talk to us."

Sherlock nodded, and John stepped forward and pushed the door open. Oliver looked at him, and John could tell he'd been crying.

"I could hear you two arguing," Oliver finally speaks, his voice soft and rough. "Before Emily came in here."

John really wished he hadn't. "I'm sorry, Oliver -" Johns starts.

Oliver looked away. "Caden did this."

John's stomach twisted at the hollowness of his voice.

"I know he's working with them. The people you're after. He told me," Oliver sighed heavily. "He’s probably the one who bugged the flat. He was only w-with me because he was spying on us."

John's own heart broke at Oliver's dull and tired eyes. He wondered where the shy teenager with a bright smile had gotten lost these past few months, and if John would ever see him again.

* * *

Oliver woke up in the afternoon, not remembering falling asleep. He tensed when he heard someone shift next to him and whipped his head to look. Sherlock was sitting in the chair, a little ways away from the bed. Oliver didn't care enough to be angry at Sherlock anymore. He didn't have energy at all.

"John had to leave for work," Sherlock broke the silence. "He wanted to stay, but I told him to go." Oliver's throat hurt and his voice sounded hoarse when he asked, "Why are you here?"

Sherlock hesitated, his eyes sliding away. Oliver knew he did the same when he was unsure too.

"I'm worried for you," Sherlock said.

Oliver turned to look out the window again. "Why bother?"

Sherlock didn't answer him for a little while, and Oliver didn't care, until he finally said, “Because you're just like me."

Oliver turned again and scowled at Sherlock's grim face.

"Everything you're doing, everything you're going through," Sherlock said. "I did it too."

Oliver scoffed, and it hurt his throat. "You don't know anything about me." He focused his attention on picking at an itchy part of his cast. Oliver was  _ nothing _ like Sherlock. He wanted to be alone, why wouldn't Sherlock just leave Oliver  _ alone _ ?

"I'd like to know you," Sherlock said.

Oliver rolled his eyes. "Why? After almost 16 years, why now? It doesn’t even matter anymore. You never cared before.”

He heard Sherlock's fingers tap anxiously on the edge of the plastic chair, over and over. The heart rate monitor above Oliver's head was beeping against the silence, and the needle in his skin for the IV bag itched.

"I know," Sherlock shifted. "I’m not going to bother apologizing because I know that doesn’t mean anything to you.”

Oliver shut his eyes and leaned his head back on the pillow.

"I want to be a part of your life. Because you - you and John..." Sherlock sighed.

Oliver opened his eyes and Sherlock was looking down at his hands, face open. Oliver searched his face for any sign of lying or anything other than honestly. He couldn't find anything, but he was too tired to really try anyways.

"Okay," Oliver whispered. Sherlock looked up at him, and Oliver remembered that his eyes came purely from Sherlock.

"Okay?" Sherlock asked.

Oliver looked up at the ceiling. "Yeah. Okay."

They aren't fixed, but they're trying.

* * *

The second day Oliver was in the hospital, he decided he hated hospitals. He'd mostly slept through the first day, but was in too much pain to do so today. He'd never really been to a hospital before - that he can remember anyways. When he was younger, all of his doctors had been personally hired to come right to the estate. He'd never really gotten sick and anytime he was hurt it could be taken care of at home or at a private clinic. The smell of bleach, and sickness and the sounds of crying families, babies, and beeping drove him nuts. He hated hospitals.

But more than hospitals, he hated John, Sherlock and Emily for knowing about him and Caden. Whatever him and Caden had been, it was obvious to those three now and Oliver hated that. Which meant Mycroft would know, and his grandparents and maybe even Mrs Hudson and Molly. He wasn’t even gay, and now they’d all think he was. He didn’t want to be questioned about whatever  _ relationship _ him and Caden had - it didn’t matter because he never wanted to be with anyone ever again.

And now they know Caden was only in it to corrupt him and gain information about Sherlock. They all would know how easily Caden fucked him up and manipulated him, and then things he did. How stupid he was, and how Emily had been right the entire time.

He wished no one knew. He wished he could keep everything that happened all in his head. It was embarrassing, and the worst part is that he was heartbroken. Actually heartbroken, and he wished with his whole soul that he wasn’t. He wished he could be angry at Caden and not feel a damn thing. He didn’t want to feel like he’d lost his first love because it turned out Caden wasn’t even that. But it did, and it fucking hurt.

Oliver looked down at his forearm, where at the crook of his elbow was a burn scar from his cigarette the other day. Another thing John probably knew about. It's still red and raw and disgusting. Above it, on his inner bicep are two more burn scars, a little bit older. Those ones Caden had done. There were a couple more near his ankles, too, but his pant legs covered those.

He rubbed his finger over the new one and felt tears gather in his eyes as his heart tried to rip itself apart. He took a shuddering breath, trying to calm himself down.

A knock sounded on the wooden door and he quickly wiped his eyes, saying come in. Emily walked in, looking a whole lot better today, no longer hunched over, hesitant, or pale. She sat down in the chair next to him.

“It’s kind of unfair how nice out it is today, right?” She said, leaning her elbow on the bed rail and resting her chin in her palm. Oliver scrunched up his nose, wondering what she was talking about.

“You’d think it’d be raining and cloudy, like in depressing parts of movies,” she continued, looking out the window. “But it’s the prettiest day of autumn, and you’re stuck in here.”

Oliver rolled his eyes and the corner of Emily’s mouth quirked up.

“Anyways,” she said, “School starts really soon. Do you think you’ll be there for the first day?”

“I don’t really care,” Oliver answered quietly. He was still really tired.

“Well, you better - who else is going to help me with maths during lunch?”

Oliver felt a smile push at his lips. “If you paid attention in class, you wouldn’t need help. It’s easy.”

Emily took her arm off the railing and waved her hand, dismissing that. “Sorry we can’t all be multitaskers, Mr Drawing-In-Class.”

Oliver snorted. “You wouldn’t have to multitask if you stopped texting under the desk.”

Emily pretended to be super interested in her nails and used her other hand to make a  _ blah blah blah  _ motion. Oliver laughed, swatting her arm away, and she grinned at him.

He appreciated her trying to be normal with him. It’s better than he’ll get with anyone else, and it distracted him from the anxiety of conversations to come. Oliver thinks she’s trying because she understands. Though things were a little awkward with them right now, he really had missed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> weekly updates?  
> i haven't heard that name in years  
> *sips tea*
> 
>  
> 
> okay but seriously I'm going to make an effort to get back into weekly updates, because this story is almost over and it's the longest thing i've ever written. i just have had writer's block with the last couple of chapters (i write ahead by two or three chapters)


	14. Columba “The Dove”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> buckle up bitches

Oliver finally got to go home after his fifth day in the hospital. The entire stay had been the most boring five days of his life, and he spent most of it sleeping. John visited him everyday, sometimes with Sherlock, but Oliver still felt too embarrassed to talk to him, so they never stayed long. It made Oliver feel _bad_ , but he just wanted space to think without being analyzed or looked at with worry and pity.

He enjoyed when Emily visited a few of the afternoons, because she acted like everything was normal which made it easier to talk to her. No pressure, no pitying looks, and she didn’t seem mad at him, like he’d been afraid of. They just talked for about an hour, or until Oliver was too tired to keep his eyes open, then she’d crack one last joke and end up leaving silently.

Mycroft visit on the second day, to make sure the doctors were up to his standards, also to tell Oliver that his grandparents knew there had been “an accident”. Oliver’s glad he kept it vague from them.

So, when John came to visit on the fifth day in the hospital, Oliver was pretty relieved to hear that he’d probably be going home.

“As long as you doctor clears it,” John said. “You’ll be out of here in the hour.”

“Finally.” Oliver sighed. He curled his fingers in the sheets of his bed, looking down at his dry hands. With the relief of going home came anxiety - the dread at going back to the flat, where he could no longer avoid talking, no longer have his own space.

The door opened and Oliver’s doctor walked in with her clipboard. Oliver wondered if doctors just carried those around to look important sometimes.

“All right, Oliver,” She said, way too excited. “You’re set to go home as long as you take it easy for the next week. No long walks, running, lifting. After you start to feel your energy return, you can do a bit more but wait on any strenuous activity until you see your stitches dissolve.  Doctor Watson played a big part in getting you out early, so he’ll be overseeing your care, but I’m sure you expected that.”

Oliver nodded, his heart fluttering, He’d have to face John when he got home. His eyes flicked to the man, who was standing next to the bed, his arms crossed and face unreadable. Oliver swallowed, trying to calm himself down. He knew he was in deep shit. Suddenly, going home didn’t seem too exciting.

The doctor was still talking, “You’ll need to come back in three or so weeks to check how your wrist is healing.” She flipped her papers down and smiled at them. “You’ll probably want to use a wheelchair to get to your car, there’s one in the hall for you. I’ll leave you two be, then.”

She stepped out of the room and pulled the door shut. John turned to him, and put the bag he had been carrying on the bed.

“Here,” he said. Oliver couldn’t read him. He looked fine. He looked like everything was fine but it _wasn’t_ and John _knew_ that. “I brought some clothes for you to change into. I’ll wait in the hall, just shout when you’re done.”

Oliver nodded and John left. As soon as the door closed Oliver took a deep breath. He didn’t want to have the conversation with John about the smoking, the drugs, _Caden_. He didn’t want to talk about it. He wanted them to forget about it and everything to go back to normal. Before he met Caden, before Sherlock came back. When it was just him and John.

He blinked hard, angry at the tears gathering in his eyes. He shuddered a breath, because nothing was ever going to go back to the way it was, and he had to deal with that.

Oliver threw his covers off and carefully slid until his feet were dangling off the edge of the bed. He winced, steeling himself against the sharp pain in his abdomen. He pulled off the hospital gown and rooted around in the bag, relieved to find his favorite warm jumper and a pair of jeans. Standing up was not an easy task after only laying down for five days, but he didn’t want help so he just took it slow. He felt a little wobbly and dizzy so after he had his jeans on, he sat back down and shut his eyes for a moment.

“Okay!” He called for John. John came in with the wheelchair, and Oliver would have been embarrassed about being wheeled out in it, but he was too exhausted to walk out on his own anyways. At least he was leaving the smell of chemicals and sick people behind.

* * *

 John was relieved to be taking Oliver home finally, as quiet as Oliver generally was, the flat felt even quieter without him. Sherlock had to meet with Mycroft the afternoon John was due to pick Oliver up, so he went alone.

In Oliver’s hospital room, as the doctor went over the at-home care John already knew, he took a moment to watch Oliver out of the corner of his eye. He had no idea what the boy had been thinking about the past five days, he’d barely spoken more than a few words to John. Oliver looked nervous behind his tired eyes, fidgeting with his cast and the corner of his blanket. It broke John’s heart.

Once he’d wheeled Oliver out of the hospital, he caught a cab, helped Oliver into it, and took it back towards Baker Street. The whole ride Oliver leaned his head against the window and seemed to be fighting sleep. The grey sky out the window reflected both of their moods and the dark smudges under Oliver’s eyes made him look skeletal.

“Sherlock is with Mycroft,” John tried, “working on tracking the people behind all this.”

Oliver didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at John.

The cab pulled up to the kerb in front of the café, and John paid the driver. He stepped out and opened Oliver’s door, holding out a hand. For a moment, John thought Oliver might ignore him, but he gripped John’s arm with shaking hands and pulled himself out of the cab, wobbling a little. They walked into 221, and Oliver leaned against the banister on the stairs, making his own way up. Just in case, John walked behind him, watching his unsteady feet.

Oliver pushed the door to their flat open and beelined towards his room, so John let him. He didn’t want to push right now - he had a million questions and needed to sit Oliver down to talk to him, but now wasn’t the time. Oliver would probably spend the next day or two mostly sleeping anyways, now that he’s off the consistent painkillers.

John sighed and moved towards the desk in the sitting room, but saw Oliver pause in the kitchen. Oliver turned to look at John, his eyes wide and his knuckles shaking where he gripped the back of the dining chair.

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s all right,” John rushed toward him, then put his hands on either side of Oliver’s face. “Just breathe, okay?”

Oliver nodded, his watery eyes flicking back and forth between John’s. Oliver inhaled sharply, then let it out. John breathed too, feeling his shoulders untense with each breath, until Oliver looked calmer.

“Go lay down,” John said.

Oliver let out a shaky breath and nodded, walking towards his room with twitching hands.

John watched him, and hesitated, but said, “Leave your door open.”

Oliver looked back at him, but didn’t really meet his eyes, looked down at the floor and disappeared into his room, leaving his door fully open. John felt bad but he didn’t… trust Oliver. It felt awful, but it was best for now, and Oliver must know that.

John put his hands on the counter, leaning on them. It wasn’t fair that everything was fucked up now. It wasn’t fair that someone got in and destroyed everything right under their noses. Now _Oliver_ had to deal with the consequences, and John hadn’t been there for him. He was just a _kid_. John jerked back and slammed his fist into the cabinet above him, the wood splintering under his knuckles.

Then he swung around and pulled a bottle of alcohol from under the sink and poured a glass, downing it in less than a second. Then another. Then he threw the bottle back under the sink and washed all the dishes.

Mrs Hudson knocked on the door while he was in the middle of scrubbing the counter tops, and John called for her to come in. She had a smile and a container of biscuits.

“These are for Oliver,” She said, putting the plastic container on the table. “If he’s feeling up to eating. How’s he doing?”

Mrs Hudson knew, of course, that Oliver had gotten hurt. John threw the rag he had been using into the sink. “He’s asleep right now. Healing. I’m not sure how - how _okay_ he is.”

She nodded, “Give him time.”

She really had no idea, though. She says she’ll leave them be, but if they need anything just to shout because she’s always here. John nodded, and she shut the door behind her.

John sighed, washed his hands, then sat at the desk in the sitting room and tried to read.

* * *

“Oliver’s still asleep in his room,” John told Sherlock when he finally came home. John had been trying to read for a couple hours but had gotten through maybe two pages. He watched Sherlock take off his coat and walk towards Oliver’s room, then peer in the doorway to check on him.

Sherlock walked back into the sitting room, saying, “Mycroft has a lead but it’s unreliable at best and running cold.”

John didn’t really expect much, anyways.

Sherlock sat down at the desk across from John, then cleared his throat. “When we left Oliver here and that lead was a dud… The man that had tipped Mycroft off double crossed him. Mycroft thinks it was part of their plan to get us out of the flat, and lure Oliver to that warehouse. We can also confirm that boy - Caden - is part of the organization. He had been the whole time.”

“Fuck,” John breathed, then stood up and paced away, running his hands through his hair a few times. “How did we not notice this?

“We did know something was wrong. I- I should have realized there was more to it.”

“I don’t blame you,” John turned to him.

“Why not?” Sherlock snapped, standing up. “Why aren’t you angry at me? Like Oliver was! I don’t understand why you’re so forgiving! Yell at me, punch me, something!”

“I _was_ mad at you! But I can’t be! I don’t want to be anymore!”

“You have to tell me why!” Sherlock shouted. “Tell why you won’t get angry with me, because I keep getting mixed signals from you!”

“I don’t know! What do you want to to say?” John shouted back.

Sherlock threw his arms up. “I want to stop avoiding all… _this_! I want to talk to you, honestly, without all these complicated situations around us!”

“We are talking!”

“No, we’re shouting!”

John huffed and turned away from Sherlock, rubbing his palms into his eyes. He hoped their shouting didn’t wake Oliver. He turned back to Sherlock, whose eyebrows were drawn and mouth twisted into a frown.

“I love you,” John blurted as a whisper, like the last words on someone’s dying breath. It blew through the room like wind from nowhere, carrying words not dared be spoken by either of them in all their time together. It was fleeting, said by millions of people everyday, but to them it was so taboo that the silence that filled the air around those words was so thick they could carve it out with nothing but the sharp edges of their fractured hearts.

Yet as soon as he said it, he wished he could take it back. Keep it hidden in the dark recesses of his mind, pretend it never happened and go on still, both pretending to be oblivious to the unnamed tension constantly between them that they tried to ignore day after day.

Sherlock stepped forward and kissed him. John reached up to hold Sherlock’s face in his hands, kissing him back. He could feel Sherlock’s long fingers curl against his jumper, pulling him impossibly closer.

John pulled back just a little, “Is that a good enough answer?”

He could feel Sherlock’s breath against his own, he smelt like mint toothpaste from this morning. Sherlock pushed forward and kissed him again, nodding into it. John’s heart thudded and adrenaline coursed through his veins. He’d wanted this for so long. _So long_ , it didn’t even feel real now. If he let go of Sherlock he might disappear, or fade away.

The warmth that radiated between them reminded John that _yes_ \- this was real. All of it was real and it made his chest hurt and flutter and everything broken felt like it was being taped back together.

* * *

That night when they lay next to each other in bed, neither were ashamed to wrap around each other. They both lay on their sides, facing each other in the dark. John ran his fingers slowly through Sherlock's hair, the curls wrapping around his fingers as he pulled away. He wondered how Sherlock kept his hair so soft. John rested his hand in Sherlock’s hair, rubbing his thumb across Sherlock’s temple.

“I… apologize - if it seems like I’m not worried for Oliver,” Sherlock said. “I just - don’t know how to deal with everything I’m feeling. I’m just trying to do what I know best for him. Solve the case.”

“I know,” John whispered.

Sherlock took John’s hand from the side of his head and folded their fingers together on the pillow between them. It started to rain outside, the drops tapping on the glass of the window.

“I love you too,” Sherlock whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow the weeks are FLYING by like where is February going??? January lasted like a decade but it's been two days and February is almost over?  
> also the "i love you" scene with john and sherlock was literally the first thing i wrote for this WHOLE SERIES, thank god you guys can finally read it.
> 
> anywaysssss remember to leave a like, comment and subscribe  
> wait wrong platform.
> 
>  
> 
> please review it's the lifeblood that keeps this story going


	15. Cygnus “The Swan”

When John woke up, he could feel Sherlock’s breath on his neck. He shot up, then looked down at Sherlock, still sound asleep. Dark hair a mess, laying on his stomach, swallowed by the duvet and pillow while his back slowly rose and fell with his breathing.

John slid out of bed, careful not to wake him. His heart palpitated when he thought about last night and everything that happened. He could still feel Sherlock’s lips on his, and for some reason this time it felt more real now than that time after the hospital. Less emotional, more honest and raw.

It was chilly this morning, and John shivered a bit as he walked downstairs and into the bathroom. He washed his face, relishing in the cold water against his skin. It woke him up a bit more, clearing the fog from his brain. After he brushed his teeth, he walked to Oliver's room and checked on him. The boy was still sleeping, looking a little uncomfortable on his back, but John let him be. He started making breakfast for all of them, and it didn’t take long for Sherlock to tumble into the kitchen, yawning and with his phone in his hand. 

“My parents just called,” he said. “They want to come over at noon, I tried to tell them it wasn't a good time - but they insisted. Apparently Mycroft told them there had been an  _ accident _ .”

John knew how they could be, and maybe it would do Oliver some good to see his grandparents, no matter how much they fussed on a good day. John turned from the stove to properly look at Sherlock, his white button up looking askew and blinking blearily at his phone. John looked away quickly, feeling like a teenage boy with the smile that creeped onto his face. Sherlock brushed by John to grab a mug from the cabinet and the way his hand trailed across John’s back felt like the most natural thing in the world, and it really was to them. John wasn't all that surprised. As the morning went on and they ate breakfast, talking about this and that, but mostly in comfortable silence they both were used to, nothing actually felt different between them. John hadn’t expected it to feel any different.

Oliver woke up a little before eleven, and John watched him stumble into the bathroom, looking pale and tired. He heard the shower turn on and John had to tell himself that Oliver will be fine, the stitches will be fine, he’s not going to pass out or anything. It didn’t stop John from straining his hearing the entire time Oliver was in the bathroom, just in case.

When he finally left the bathroom in flannel pants and a jumper, he walked over and sat on the couch, still looking exhausted despite all the sleep he’d gotten. The bell at the front door rang and John got up from the desk, knowing it was the elder Holmes already. He opened the front door for them, and said hello.

“Oh, John, we’ve been worried sick about Oliver,” Violet said, following John inside. “Ever since Mycroft called us, so many awful things have been running through my head.”

John nodded along, listening to her ramble a she and Sigar followed him up the stairs. Sherlock was gone from where he’d been sitting in his armchair, but Oliver stood up, looking (for once) a little happy. 

Violet pulled him into a hug, “I’m so glad to see you’re doing all right.”

John let them be as Oliver hugged Sigar, then sat back down and put his head on one of the sofa pillows with droopy eyes. Violet started talking, rambling on about this and that, so John left them to it and walked upstairs to his bedroom, where Sherlock was pacing.

“Are you all right?” John asked.

Sherlock dropped onto the edge of the bed. “I don’t know. My parents being here makes me… anxious.”

John sighed, sat down next to him on the edge of the bed and reached up to push his fingers through Sherlock’s soft hair. He could do that all day. Sherlock glanced at him.

“What are we doing?” John asked, his voice quiet.

Sherlock leaned over and dropped his head onto John’s shoulder; John felt a tingle run down his spine when Sherlock’s hair brushed against his neck. “I have no idea.”

Sherlock ended up staying in their room with John’s laptop the entire time Sigar and Violet were visiting. Sigar only asked where Sherlock was once, and John said he’s out. Violet rolled her eyes in good heart, and waved it off.

They were talking about how much snow London was supposed to get this winter, when John noticed Oliver had drifted off where he lay on the couch. With a little bit of a smile, he put his hand on Oliver’s shoulder and Oliver opened his eyes.

“You should go lay down in your room, but do you want to eat anything first?”

Oliver dragged himself up so he was sitting and yawned, then shook his head. He’d been pretty quiet the whole day, and John knew he needed to eat, so he’d make sure Oliver had a good meal by this evening.

“We should probably get going then,” Sigar said. Violet nodded.

They all stood up and Oliver gave his grandparents each a hug, before drifting towards his room. He kept the door open.

“Promise you’ll have Oliver call us as soon as he’s up to it,” Violet said while John walked them to the door.

He nodded, “Of course.”

John saw them outside, then walked back upstairs where Sherlock had somehow appeared in the sitting room in the few seconds John had been gone.

“Hungry?” John asked. Sherlock looked up from the laptop and nodded.

John made them a late lunch, and put enough aside so if Oliver decided he wanted something to eat, he could. While washing the plates when they were done, he heard murmuring from Oliver’s room, so he dried his hands on a towel and walked down the hall, pushing the door open.

Oliver’s head was thrashing back and forth in his sleep, mumbling from a nightmare. John walked over to the bed, pity pushing at his insides, and shook Oliver awake. Oliver snapped up with a gasp, then groaned and put his hand to his stomach, leaning over.

“Let me see,” John said, pushing Oliver’s hands away and lifting his shirt to look at the stitches. He gently peeled the bandage back, and saw they were a little red and aggravated, like Oliver had been itching at them.

“You need to be careful, you can’t scratch at them,” John said. Oliver looked away from him, and pushed his shirt back down. John sighed and sat on the edge of Oliver’s bed. “Are you okay?”

Oliver scoffed, and John watched his face changed from exasperation to anger, then exhaustion.

“I meant the nightmare,” John said, tilting his head to catch Oliver’s eyes. “Are you okay?”

Oliver picked at his nails, then mumbled, “Yeah. I don’t remember it.” He shifted under the blankets until he was laying on his side again.

“You can talk to me you know,” John said. “I’m - I’m not  _ mad _ . About anything.”

Oliver shut his eyes for a moment, then turned his head to John and opened them. “Why not? I know it’s my fault that this happened. I know I fucked up.”

“Don’t curse.”

Oliver looked away, and picked at a loose thread on his sheet, holding his jumper sleeve so it covered most of his hand.

“None of this is your fault,” John said.

“But it  _ is _ ,” Oliver insisted. “I knew everything I was doing was wrong, but I still did it. I still made stupid mistakes because I’m a fucking  _ idiot _ .” He slammed his fist against the mattress, and then rolled onto his back and covered his face with his hands.

“We all make mistakes, Oliver,” John said, pushing Oliver’s arms down so he could see his face. “I’m here if you want to talk about any of it.”

“I know,” Oliver whispered, staring up at his ceiling. They were quiet for a moment, then Oliver asked, “Are you and Sherlock together?”

John paused in worrying his lip between his teeth. John doesn’t bother asking what Oliver picked up to ask that, it was probably obvious to the boy. “I don’t know. What would you think about that?”

Oliver doesn’t answer right away, instead he lifts his arms so he can see the cuff of his jumper, where he’s successfully pulling a thread out. He dropped his arms after a moment and said, quietly, “I wouldn’t mind having two dads.”

* * *

The next morning when John walked downstairs, Oliver was already awake and sitting on the couch, staring at nothing while he absently rubbed his thumb over the burns John knew were on the inside of his left elbow. John sat down next to him, and Oliver pulled his sleeve down, looking at his lap.

John spoke first, “You know I took all the lighters out of your room.”

“Yeah,” Oliver’s voice cracked. “I threw out all the cigarettes a while ago.”

“Good.”

“I’m sorry,” Oliver’s voice broke, like he wanted to cry. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

John watched his hand curl over that same spot near his elbow. The flat was quiet, and a little cold again. Everything felt stiff and dull, like the colors were lacking. There was traffic in the far distance, but this little corner of London felt gloomy and still today.

“Can I see?” John asked.

Oliver’s fingers twisted in the purple fabric of his jumper, but he pulled the sleeve up past his elbow. There’s three burn scars, one newer and the other two a couple weeks old. The newest scar was red and maybe a week old. John’s stomach twisted at the thought of Oliver feeling like he needed to do something like that. John, years ago, had a similar problem and he knew the exact thought process someone had to go through to get to this, and it broke John’s heart. 

“Do you think the scar will stay?” Oliver asked.

It looked like the older two might, but John said, “I can get a cream to put on them, to prevent the scarring from being too bad.

Oliver sighed and mumbled, “I just want them to be gone.”

John does too.

He reached out, gently taking Oliver’s arm and rubbing his thumb over the newer one. “Why did you do this one?”

Oliver pulled his arm away and pushed his sleeve down, turning his head so John couldn’t see his face. His voice shook when he said, “I - um,” Oliver fidgeted with his hands, looking down at his lap. John could see the sides of his cheeks turning red. “Uh, the - the day I came home and we got in the that fight… ‘cause I - I was,” he swallowed.

John nodded, because he knew Oliver was talking about the day over a week ago, when Oliver came home high and everything came out. The night before he was attacked. John felt his heart pound with anxiety. “What about that day?”

Oliver took a deep breath, the exhale shuddering out. “I was at Caden’s flat. Um, he… he wanted to - to do… stuff, but I didn’t a-and… um, he tried... anyways?”

John felt like he’d swallowed a rock, and he took Oliver’s shoulder, turning him and pulling him into a hug. He felt Oliver tense up, but he never wanted to let go of the boy again. He held the back of Oliver’s head, his face pressed into John’s jumper. John tightened his arm around Oliver when he felt the boy let out a sob against him. 

John pressed his cheek to Oliver’s hair, whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Over and over while Oliver cried into his shirt.

“Noth- nothing ha-happened,” Oliver turned his head so John could hear him between his choked sobs. “B-but, I just -” He broke off with a gasp, as another round of heaving sobs broke through.

John just held him, “I know, it’s okay. It’s okay, Oliver.”

John squeezed his eyes shut, holding Oliver close. When Oliver finally started to calm down, he pulled away from John, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

“Can - can I,” He shuddered out a breath. “I’m going to lay down.”

“Okay,” John said, reluctantly letting Oliver go so he could stand. John felt awful, watching the teenager leave the sitting room. He couldn’t believe Oliver had kept so much from him, and he didn’t know how to help.

It seemed like Oliver wanted to work through it alone, but John didn’t know if that was best. Regardless, he’d be here whenever the boy needed him. He’d always be here.

He scrubbed his face with his hands and sighed, then stood up and made some coffee, resisting the urge to dump alcohol into the mug too.

Sherlock finally came downstairs, already impeccably dressed, phone in hand. “Mycroft has another location, and he’s sure this time.” Sherlock’s face is set, and it’s just like a few days ago. “We don’t have to go, but if we want to question anyone, we should.”

John dumped his coffee. “Go ahead, but text me the address. I’ll get someone to stay with Oliver, then meet you there.”

That’s best it’s going to get. John wouldn’t leave Oliver alone, but they also needed to get to the bottom of this case and finish it. Sherlock tossed John a little notebook, and John caught it, checking the address.

“I’m meeting Lestrade’s team first, if you hurry you can be there for the raid,” Sherlock explained, pulling on his coat and popping the collar.

John nodded, and Sherlock was gone. John made a phone call, and fifteen minutes later, he was out of the flat, in a cab and on his way to the location.

* * *

Oliver woke up half past eleven in the morning, and checked his phone. A voicemail from John lit it up, and he listened to it immediately. It said John and Sherlock got a hit and had to leave, but it Oliver needs anything at all, just text and John will come home as fast as he can. John also said he doesn’t want Oliver leaving the flat, and Emily is there to look out for him.

Oliver’s actually a little relieved they’re out of the flat, and a morbid part of him hopes they find Caden and kill him. He hauled himself out of bed, his body like a dead weight, figuring he’ll greet Emily at least.

He changed his shirt and ran his fingers through his hair, making his mess of curls even worse, then walked into the sitting room. Emily was on the sofa, using her phone.

“Hi,” he said, and she looked up, then moved her feet off the sofa so Oliver could sit next to her.

“You look tired,” She said. 

Oliver smiled. “I don’t really have any energy at all. I’ve basically only been sleeping the past two days. It’s so boring.”

“Well, school starts next Thursday,” she said, putting her elbow on the arm of the couch and leaning her head against her palm. “You probably won’t be in the first day though, right?”

“Probably not. I don’t… feel like being around so many people yet,” Oliver looked down at his hands. “It still hurts to walk around sometimes.”

Emily made a sympathetic noise, then reached out and twisted at Oliver’s hair with her fingers. Oliver flinched, and she paused, but he took a breath and let her, because she used to do that all the time and it felt nice. He was so grateful that she was acting normal.

“Wow, your hair is a mess,” Emily said with a laugh, tugging her fingers through like a comb. “It’s getting long. Do you have a brush?”

Oliver rarely brushed his hair, he hated fighting with it. “In the bathroom. It’s blue.”

Emily stood up, and came back a moment later with Oliver’s brush in her hand. “Sit here,” she said.

Oliver slid off the sofa and sat on the floor where she pointed. He leaned back against the cushions and Emily sat on the sofa behind him, her legs crossed. Oliver shut his eyes as she started to pulled the brush through his hair, being gentle not to tug, working the knots out.

They were both quiet for a while.

“Are you okay?” Emily asked, her voice soft.

Oliver opened his eyes, and answered just as quietly, “I don’t know.”

“That’s all right,” she said.

Oliver put his hand up his sleeve, running a finger over the burn marks. “I’m sorry.”

The brush paused in his hair. “Why?”

Oliver tilted his head down, and the brush left his hair. “I should have listened to you. You were right the whole time, and now -” his voice cracked. He raised his hands to his face. “Now everything is messed up.”

Emily didn’t say anything, but Oliver felt her move from behind him and when he moved his hands from his face, he watched her sit down on the floor in front of him.

“I’m not good at this stuff,” she said. “But nothing is messed up. We’re still friends, right?”

Oliver nodded, looking away so he didn’t have to meet her eyes. “But  _ I’m _ messed up.” He mumbled.

“You’re not, Oliver. Why do you say that?”

“Because, because…” he squeezed his eyes shut, tilting his head down. He hadn’t talked to anyone about this. He couldn’t. He could never tell John and he didn’t even know why he was telling Emily. She was going to hate him. “I know… I know it was fake, but I - I think I still love him.”

He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. His eyes stung with tears. “And I - I know I shouldn’t, because of everything he did, but I… I don’t know why I do.”

Oliver hid his face in his knees. He didn’t want to cry in front of Emily. He didn’t want to see her face full of anger, or disappointment, or disgust. She knew what Caden had done to him. He hated that he still felt things toward Caden. Love was stupid. It was stupid, and Oliver hated it, and  _ god _ it hurt.

“Oliver…” Emily’s voice sounded weird, and he felt her hands on his arms, pulling them away so he would look at her. He did, wiping at his face with his sleeves, hoping to rid any stray tears. Emily looked sad.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, looking away from her.

“Don’t apologize,” she said. “I don’t want you to apologize to me. And don’t  _ ever _ think any of this is your fault, okay?”

Oliver looked at her again. She was frowning, but not with pity. She wasn’t looking down on him. Her eyes were wide, and brown. He thought they were like Caden’s, but his were a watery brown, like mud. Emily’s were dark around the edges, and more amber than brown in the center.

“Okay,” Oliver breathed. 

Emily gave a little smile, then reached up and ran her fingers through his hair, fixing it. “There. Much better.”

He smiled, realizing he felt a lot less tired today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hm


	16. Virgo “The Maiden”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's this? two weekly updates in a row? madness!

“Are you hungry?” Emily asked, about an hour after their talk on the floor.

Oliver nodded, and they both got up and moved into the kitchen. Oliver started rooting around in the fridge and cabinets, looking for anything they could make for lunch. Emily sat down at the kitchen table, letting Oliver do it on his own. He’s grateful. John would make him sit so he doesn’t strain, but Oliver knew he was fine.

He found some sauce in the fridge and a box of pasta in the cabinet, and held it up. “Pasta?”

“Sure,” she said. She had one arm resting on the table, and the other on it’s elbow, her chin in her palm while she watched him pull what he’d need out of the cabinets.

He filled a pot with water and moved it to the stove, then lit the gas flame. He stepped back and looked up, and his blood rushed to his feet.

A tiny microphone sat on top of the cabinet in the corner. 

Oliver rushed to the corner, hauled himself onto the counter, scrambling up to grab it, and ignoring the strain on his stomach.

“Oliver!” Emily gasped. “You’ll tear your stitches!”

He plucked the mic off the cabinet, slid off the counter and dropped it to the floor, smashing it under his bare foot, before realizing he’s hyperventilating. His chest spiked with pain, and he clutched his shirt over his heart, squeezing his eyes shut, bracing his other hand on the counter. Emily’s chair scrapped on the floor and she rushed around the table, putting her hands on Oliver’s shoulders.

“Oliver! What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

He shook his head, unable to answer as he sunk to the floor. He chest felt like it was on fire, he couldn’t breathe, his head spun and he’s going to die. The taps. The cameras, the microphones. Caden’s the one who was putting them around the flat. It had to have been Caden.

Oliver gasped out, “Panic attack.”

Emily sunk down to the floor with him, and he felt her cold hands on either side of his face. He opened his eyes, but he couldn’t focus on her, everything was moving, and the gas stove was crackling and the water hissed and the cars outside are roaring and honking, Oliver could hear his heart thudding in his ears, and Caden was laughing right before his fist connected with Oliver’s jaw, and his hands were on Oliver’s face as they kissed. Oliver wanted to scream and hit something and tear himself apart from the inside out.

Emily’s voice was distant, like an echo in a dream, “Oliver, focus on me. Look at me, you can do it.”

Her hands were cold and real, and  _ not Caden’s _ , and Oliver found her brown eyes  _ just like Caden’s, Caden’s brown eyes,  _ but - no, her’s are lighter like honey or leaves in the autumn and they’re  _ warm _ .

“Breathe, Oliver,” Her soft voice is distant and Oliver realizes it’s  _ her _ . She’s always been there, and she tried to protect him, and he should have listened, he shouldn’t have been so awful to her, why was she still here for him?

“No, no, no” She said. “You’re doing it again. Right here, stay here with me. You’re okay. Everything is okay.”

Oliver remembered the pressure of her hands on his chest, the ground hard beneath him, and his hands sticky with blood. He could see her face in the moonlight, leaning over him, tears dripping from her cheeks. She was screaming his name, begging him to stay awake, but it sounded so far away. He could feel the numbness where her hands tried to stop the bleeding, and when he reached up with a bloody hand to touch her face.  _ Real _ . She had always been there.

“Oliver,” Emily was saying. “Stay in the present okay?”

Oliver met her eyes, and he was jerked back into the kitchen of their little flat, hunched over on the floor. It was quiet. He let out a shaky breath. He’s okay. His heartbeat slowed, and his breathing calmed. He felt numb and shaky, crouched on the kitchen floor with Emily. He’s holding her wrists tight, and he hoped he’s not hurting her, but both her hands are still on the sides of his head, keeping him grounded.

He gasped, tension leaving his body, and lurched forward, hugging her. “Thank you,” he whispered against her hair.

She’s frozen, Oliver still holding her right wrist out to the side, but she tucked her other arm under his and hugged back.

The water boiled over on the stove.

* * *

It wasn’t the main headquarters like they’d hoped. John and Sherlock had followed the police in, and about a dozen people,  _ criminals _ , tried to scatter but where caught and enough incriminating files and weapons were found to take the people back to NSY immediately. Everything was chaotic for about two hours, not much got done and even Sherlock couldn’t talk his way into most of the goings-on.

When everything finally started calming down and getting sorted, Greg promised Sherlock and John ten minutes with a short blonde woman who gave off an air of being “in charge”.

When they entered the interrogation room, the woman’s small wrists were cuffed to the metal table, but she sat confidently and with a smirk. John thought she looked vaguely familiar. He leaned against the wall behind the table, and Sherlock sat in the chair across from her.

John watched her body language while Sherlock deduced what he could about her, and pressed for names. She refused to speak, so Sherlock tried to piss her off with deductions. Around thirty-eight years old, never married, not originally from England but with a trained accent. Naturally a brunette and she’s lived in three different countries in the past five years. She’s not head of the operations, but she’s leader of a large part of it.

The whole time, she just smiled. It’s not even an intimidating smile, just a nice one. It made John uneasy that she’s so calm, and it obviously aggravated Sherlock.

The first time she speaks, it made both of them pause.

“You have very nice blue eyes,” she said. “A unique color, I’ve rarely seen it before.” She then looked to John. “I love military types.”

“Are you part of the reason our flat was being bugged?” Sherlock asked.

She grinned at him. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Sherlock slammed his hands on the table and stood up. “We have enough evidence to throw you in prison for the rest of your life.”

The woman shrugged. “I’ve always known the consequences of my job. You’ve barely caught half of us. It’s not likely you’ll find the rest.”

Sherlock slammed the door open and stormed out. The woman winked at John, and he grimaced, then followed Sherlock out. They’re both frustrated and on edge. John caught up with Sherlock at the end of the empty hall.

“How much longer is this going to happen? How many more dead ends?”

“I don’t know, John!” Sherlock snapped. “It took me two years, and I thought I had gotten all of them. Don’t you think the fact that I missed part so close to home is eating away at me too?”

John grabbed the lapels of his coat and turned him. “This is not all on you! You have people helping you!”

Sherlock pulled away and sighed. He ran his hands through his hair a few times, making it stick up. “Let’s just go home, there’s nothing else was can do here. I’ll have Lestrade send me the interrogation reports when they’re done. I doubt anyone with have more success than us.”

John sighed and nodded. They both left the building and Sherlock summoned a cab out of nowhere to head home. When they enter the flat, Oliver and Emily aren't in sight, and John sat on the sofa, rubbing his hands on his face.

“Can you check on Oliver?” he asked Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded and pulled off his coat, then headed towards Oliver’s room.

* * *

Oliver was sat on his bed, back to the wall, and Emily was sitting on his desk chair, spinning in it. After Oliver’s panic attack, Emily finished making their pasta because all of Oliver’s energy had left his body. They hadn’t really talked about it since. Oliver had been emotional and it was embarrassing that he broke down like that. It felt like he couldn’t hold himself together anymore. But he thinks Emily understood.

His door creaked open, making Oliver jumped, but it was just Sherlock.

Emily looked a little awkward, so she stood up, said a quick, “Bye, Oliver.” Then rushed out of his room.

Sherlock cleared his throat and sat down in the chair. Oliver was having a hard time keeping his eyes open.

“Are you feeling all right?” Sherlock asked.

“Hm, tired.”

Sherlock eyes flicked over him, and he felt exposed. “You had an anxiety attack earlier. What triggered it?”

Oliver sighed, not liking being deduced. He shifted until he was laying down on his side. His bed was so comfortable. “I found a mic. Don’t worry, I crushed it.”

“We’ll check the flat again if - if that makes you worry less.”

Oliver nodded against his pillow, eyes lidded. He stretched a little, he’s exhausted. “I’m glad Emily was here,” he mumbled, then closed his eyes and yawned - he was falling asleep. “How long did it take for you to realize you loved John?”

Oliver opened his eyes, realizing what he said, and Sherlock looked frozen, staring with big eyes, his mouth open mid-word.

“Sorry,” Oliver said. “Nevermind. I’m going to sleep, I’m really tired.”

Sherlock nodded and fled from the room.

Oliver’s just about to fall asleep when John walked in, saying, “I just need to change your bandages really quick before you sleep.”

Oliver sighed, but dragged himself up and sluggishly pulled off his shirt. His body felt heavy and his head sorta lolled on his neck. John laughed, shaking his own head and pulled the plasters off Oliver’s stitches.

“You need to be a little more careful, they’re a still aggravated,” John said, switching to clean white plasters and ridding of the brown stained ones. “We’ll take the bandages off in a day or two, so the air will help heal you.”

John helped Oliver’s heavy limbs back into his shirt and he flopped sideways onto his pillows.

“Hey, dad?” He mumbled. 

John paused in the doorway and looked at him. “Yes?”

Oliver’s filter has seemed to stop working. “How do you know if you love someone? And - and,” He yawned, “not romantically, or like family. Just in every way. How do you know?”

“Why do you ask?”

Oliver shrugged a little. “I think - I think I might have misunderstood what love is.”

John turned to fully look at him. “Oliver, you’re young.”

Oliver shut his eyes and fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so another transitional, heavy chapter. but this one is sorta the turning point for the last "arc" as the story comes to a close. As most of you have probably seen, i've marked this story to be 20 chapters long, and it will probably be around that (maybe 21-22). my biggest problem right now is theres a specific plot line i'm having trouble wrapping up, but i'll figure it out.
> 
> also i was listening to Saturn by Sleeping At Last which is the song i was listening to a year ago when i had the idea for this story and my muse was like"tiME TO FINISH THIS STORY"


	17. Andromeda “The Chained Lady”

Around midday the next day, Mrs Hudson came up and offered to make lunch.

“You don’t have to Mrs H,” John said.

“Oh, I insist,” she said, making her way into the kitchen. “I found a new recipe I _must_ try out, but it makes too much for just me.”

“There’s no stopping her now, John,” Sherlock said from the sitting room. Mrs Hudson was already pulling out dishes. She started making some kind of vegetable dish, when Oliver came out of his room for the first time today. He looked really rough, eyes dark and sunken, his skin clammy and he stumbled when he walked into the kitchen.

“All right, Oliver?” John asked.

“I feel a little feverish.”

John stepped around the table and pressed his wrist to Oliver’s forehead. “You’re warm. Here, drink some water.”

John grabbed a glass and filled it for him, then pressed it into his hands and gave him some ibuprofen, telling him he should probably lay down.

“But I want to sit out here with you,” Oliver said. He sounded like a little kid.

John smiled. “Okay, as long as you rest and actually eat something.”

Oliver nodded, and Mrs Hudson caught him in a hug. Oliver smiled, leaning into it.

“I’ve been wanting to check on you,” Mrs Hudson says, “But I know you must be tired and I didn’t want to bother you three too much. I’m glad you’re okay, Ollie.”

Oliver nodded and sat at the kitchen table, watching Mrs Hudson cook. Mrs Hudson chattered on, gossiping about the baker in the cafe downstairs and his wife. She asked through the doorway what case Sherlock’s working on, and he gave a vague answer. They had decided not to tell her about the taps weeks ago, it was better that she didn’t know.

When she finished cooking, she put together plates for everyone, even Sherlock who said he wasn’t hungry, and John sat at the table with Mrs Hudson and Oliver. Oliver mostly pushed his food around with the fork, taking an occasional bite while listening to John and Mrs Hudson’s small talk.

It was two hours after she arrived that she said goodbye and left the flat. Oliver had taken to laying on the couch, while Sherlock and John laid out their case notes across the table and desk in the sitting room. There’s newspaper clippings and scripts from the unsuccessful interrogations, photographs, and files from the base they raided.

Sherlock pushed a folder across the table toward John and flipped it open. “This group might be related to the alleged terrorist attack we shut down weeks ago; the bomb on the train.”

That case had been left cold, after the police couldn’t find the people who set up the actual explosives. That’s what they were working on connecting.

Sherlock had two laptops in front of him (John had no idea where they came from) and John had his, plus all the clippings and files. They spent a good hour or two scouring news sites, files, and databases they probably shouldn’t have access too, trying to connect the organization with any other crimes or the terrorist attack. It seemed to be impossible to track them.

Sherlock was deep in thought, leaning towards his laptop screen and John was cross referencing a couple of online articles with a file from NSY when Oliver’s voice disrupted his concentration. He had thought Oliver was asleep.

“D-ad,” his voice cracked, and John whipped around in his chair. Oliver was sitting on the edge of the couch, his hands gripping the edge, looking like he might vomit. His pupils were blown and he’s shaking, trying to take a deep breath that kept hitching in his throat. Panic attack.

Sherlock was looking now too, his brow drawn and head tilted, fingers paused over the laptop keys. John moved out of his chair. Another attack? They hadn’t happened his often for over a year now. God, Oliver’s been set so far back. Maybe he should go back on his medication.

John knelt on the floor in front of Oliver, pulling his hands away from the edge of the sofa so he didn’t hurt is casted wrist.

“Dizzy-” Oliver gasped, shutting his eyes tight. John nodded, moved to the side, then guided Oliver until his head was tucked between his knees. Oliver crossed his arms over his head, gasping for breath while John put a steady hand on his shoulder. This wasn’t a bad one, and Oliver didn’t take long to come out of it.

Oliver swallowed hard and slowly lifted his head. “I’m - I’m going to go lay in bed. I don’t feel well.”

“Okay,” John stood and took Oliver’s hand to help him up. “Shout if you need anything.”

Oliver nodded, head tilted down, and walked to his room. John really hoped he didn’t end up vomiting, the strain on his stomach might be too much for his stitches.

John sat back down at the desk and ran and hand through his hair, feeling tired.

“When that happens,” Sherlock said, “how do I help?”

John looked up at him. “What? You mean when he has panic attacks?”

Sherlock nodded, his mouth a thin line.

John smiled a bit, then turned to face him fully. “Mainly you have to try and get him to regulate his breathing. Oliver hyperventilates during most of his attacks, and if it goes for too long, he’ll pass out. Sometimes he pulls his hair or digs his nails into his skin, so just pull his arms away and hold them if he does. I’ve found giving him something to focus his hands on helps, which is why we have three of those,” John pointed to the rubik’s cube on the mantel.

It’s a common three by three, the first one Oliver got, but there’s an octagonal one somewhere and one with numbers instead of colors that Oliver had been working on for a while.

John looked down at the notes all over the table. “The panic attacks haven’t happened this often in a long time.”

He saw Sherlock’s hand crinkle the paper he was holding. John sighed, then readjusted his laptop and settled into working again. After a moment, so did Sherlock. They worked in mostly silence until both of them were too frustrated to continue. John felt like they were making zero progress, no matter how much they dug.

John tossed a file onto the table and leaned back. “I can’t keep doing this, it’s driving me insane.”

Sherlock seemed to agree, and leaving all the papers where they were, they decided to search the flat once more for cameras or microphones. They search the halls top to bottom and all the rooms except Oliver’s since he was sleeping. They double checked that all the doors leading out and windows are locked, and don’t find a single thing. The mic Oliver found yesterday must have just been one they missed somehow.

“You know Caden Morstan was the one leaving them whenever Oliver brought him around,” John said.

Sherlock nodded, putting his hands on the kitchen table and leaning on them. “I can’t believe I didn’t catch it. I never paid attention to Oliver’s friends. Why wouldn’t I? It’s so unlike me.”

John put his hand on Sherlock’s back, slid it up to his shoulder and turned Sherlock to look at him. “Sherlock, two years changes things. Being away from people you knew for so long, even for someone with your brain. It’s hard to re-adept.”

Sherlock’s fingers curled on the table, and John saw the leftover scarring on his wrist where Sherlock used to have a dark bruise and a splint. John took his wrist and ran his thumb over it. He couldn’t recognize what made the scar.

“I never asked how this happened,” John said.

“I was captured close to the time I was trying to come home,” Sherlock said. “I blocked a hit from a crowbar. It still hurts sometimes.”

John shut his eyes and leaned forward, pressing his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’m sorry Sherlock. I’m sorry everything is so awful.”

Sherlock stepped back and put his hands on John’s shoulders. “Not everything is awful. We’re all together, right?”

John tilted his head and let the corner of his lips lift.

“And none of this is your fault.”

John knows this. None of it was Sherlock’s fault, either.

Oliver’s door creaked and they both looked, Sherlock dropping his hands. Oliver stumbled into the kitchen, bumping the table with his hip, making it squeak. There was a sheen of sweat on his face, and his skin looked clammy. His right hand grasped at his abdomen, pulling his jumper taut, and his left hand steadied him against the table. His whole frame seemed to vibrate, and he swayed, eyes unfocused.

“Oliver?” John frowned.

“S-something’s wrong - _fait mal_ ,” Oliver mumbled, then lurched forward and coughed, blood splattering across the kitchen tile.

John was around the table before Oliver hit the floor, his eyes rolling up and head lolling onto John’s shoulder. Sherlock hovered close by, but all of John’s attention stayed on the limp boy in his arms. Oliver’s socked feet slid backwards, and John sunk to the floor with him. He held Oliver up and shifted him so he could see the boy’s face, fighting unconsciousness, expression pained and eyes barely cracked.

“ _Froid ... à l'intérieur_ _..._ ” Oliver whispered.

“What?” John looked up to Sherlock with wide eyes.

“He -  he says he’s cold. On the inside,” Sherlock stuttered out.

John’s eyes widened and he looked down at Oliver’s stomach where he gripped the jumper, and John could see the blood soaking into the fabric.

“Sherlock call an ambulance,” John said and Sherlock rushed away to find a phone.

John’s fingers found the bottom of Oliver’s jumper and slid it up, revealing the blood gushing out between torn stitches and the awful dark bruise that webbed across Oliver’s skin from the inside, like a spiderweb. Internal bleeding.

“Oh god,” John whispered, cradling Oliver to him. He pressed his free hand down on the wound, trying to stop the blood flow and making Oliver wince. “Fuck, Ollie, you have to stay awake.”

“‘M tryin’,” he mumbled, his eyelids fluttering. “ _Je suis tellement fatigué_ … I can’t…”

John knew, logically, he needed to lay Oliver flat on the ground, but he couldn’t find the strength to let go, as if he would lose the boy when he let go. His fingers curled into Oliver’s hair, and the the back of his eyes pricked with tears. He couldn’t go through this again. John turned his head and rested his cheek on Oliver’s hair, closing his eyes.

“Please, Oliver,” he mumbled into the dark locks.

“ _Ne me... laissez pas aller_ , I’m s-scared,” Oliver muttered.

“You’ll be okay,” John said, his heart falling into pieces. “You’ll be okay.”

The ambulance arrived fast, and Oliver was taken by the paramedics. For the second time in two weeks, John had to watch his son, bloody and unconscious, be loaded into the back of an ambulance and driven away.

John felt like he was going through the motions as Sherlock dragged him outside and hailed a cab to follow.

“I can’t keep doing this,” John said, sitting in the back. Sherlock didn’t respond.

They arrived at the hospital and had to wait two long hours, and it was dark when Oliver came out of surgery. His doctor materialized in front of them, and John jolted, not realizing he had been entirely zoned out.

“It was just an accident,” Oliver’s doctor was saying. It was the same woman as last time. “He must have just twisted the wrong way in his sleep, or moved too fast and pulled both sets of stitches, on his liver and on the outside. That’s what caused the internal bleeding. Luckily, he woke up and realized something was wrong, it could have been much worse.”

John knew this, and was avoiding thinking about it. What if they _hadn’t been there_?

The doctor continued, “I’d like to keep Oliver here for a day so we can keep an eye on the stitching. You two can go see him for a few minutes, but he’s very tired and won’t be awake for much longer.”

John and Sherlock got up and followed her through the halls. Oliver had his own room again, probably because the staff knew from last time. The doctor opened the door, and they stepped through.

Oliver was definitely half-asleep and heavily medicated.

John put his hand on Oliver’s arm to get his attention, “How do you feel?”

“Heavy,” Oliver said, voice low and tired. “I just want this to be over.”

John’s chest curled in on itself and his fingers felt numb. “Me too.”

Oliver fell asleep after that, and as much as John hated leaving him, they went home. John would see him again tomorrow, and Oliver would be more awake then. The cab ride home was quiet, and John’s leg bounced involuntarily the whole time. He glanced at Sherlock, who was looking out the window, face unreadable.

When they got back to the flat, Sherlock pulled off his coat and hung it while John toed off his shoes, then grabbed Sherlock’s shirt and kissed him. John pushed him backwards until he landed on the couch and John was leaning over him, one hand braced on the back of the couch, the other fisted in Sherlock’s shirt collar, and his knee on the cushion.

Sherlock broke the kiss, “John-”

John kissed him again, hand on Sherlock’s collar, holding him in place. Sherlock put his hands on John’s shoulders and gently pushed him back.

His voice was quiet. “John,” he twisted his fingers in the hair at the nape of John’s neck. “You’re too worked up right now.”

John shut his eyes. He knew he was, but he needed to shut off his thoughts. Sherlock shifted beneath him, and their foreheads pressed together. John sighed, the knot in his chest making his whole body feel strung.

“Let’s just go to bed,” Sherlock said.

John nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M NOT GIVING UP ON THIS GODDAMN STORY OKAY GUYS? I _WILL_ FINNISH IT. God, i'm sorry this shit is so boring too.
> 
>  
> 
> Oliver's French dialogue (i do not speak French at all, this is all through the shameless use of Google translate btw):  
> "S-Something's wrong - _fait mal_ ," means "it hurts"  
> “ _Je suis tellement fatigué_ … I can’t…” means "I'm so tired"  
> “ _Ne me... laissez pas aller_ , I’m s-scared,” means "don't let me go"


End file.
